


Tamerlane

by methylviolet10b



Series: Transposition [4]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Being Trapped, Canon-Typical Violence, Charity Auction Fill, Don't underestimate John Watson, Involuntary Drugging, Junian King is not a nice man, Psychological Torture, References to Canon, Suspense, Threats of Violence, explicit descriptions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-01-14 22:14:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 30,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18485461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: In which a game of chess is finally played. A sequel to Transposition.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tripleransom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tripleransom/gifts).



> **Author’s Notes** : Written for tripleransom, who kindly bid on a story by me during the fandomlovespuertorico auction way back in 2017. She requested a sequel to Transposition. It took entirely too long, but I finally managed it. If you too would like to make a donation to help those many, many people still in need in Puerto Rico, please consider [hispanicfederation.org]() or [worldcentralkitchen.org](). This story is completely written. Chapters will be posted weekly.  
>  **Warnings** : For this chapter, implications of peril, amuse-bouche  
>  **Dedicated to** : tripleransom, with grateful thanks for your donation, patience, and faith that the outcome would be worth it. I hope this does not disappoint!

Tamerlane chess is distinctive in that there are varieties of pawn, each of which promotes in its own way.

KIND solace in a dying hour!   
Such, father, is not (now) my theme—  
I will not madly deem that power   
Of Earth may shrive me of the sin   
Unearthly pride hath revell'd in—   
I have no time to dote or dream:   
You call it hope—that fire of fire!   
It is but agony of desire:   
If I can hope—Oh God! I can—   
Its fount is holier—more divine—   
I would not call thee fool, old man,   
But such is not a gift of thine.

Know thou the secret of a spirit  
Bow'd from its wild pride into shame.

Edgar Allen Poe, _Tamerlane_

I am a brain, Watson. The rest of me is a mere appendix. – The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone, 1903

 

# Prologue

  _…in a dying hour…_

In which Holmes reflects on time and incarceration.

 

_Sherlock Holmes:_

Prisoners, when incarcerated for long periods, often find remarkable ways to pass the time. They build intricate models out of matchsticks, carve out long passages of text on stone walls, and perform other feats that consume great amounts of time with limited resources. I have observed it, and even made use of the mania that often drives these fellows, but I cannot say I ever truly understood it. Not until now, when I have nothing to otherwise occupy me from the horror of my current predicament.

That sounds dramatic, rather more like something Watson would write than my usual precise language, but it is nothing short of the truth. My predicament _is_ horrible, as terrible as anything I can imagine, and I do not lack for imagination. Worse, for all my imagination and intelligence, I do not see any way free of this diabolical trap.

Watson has often taken me to task for ignoring the needs of my body, even going so far as to accuse me of doing myself injury when I refuse to eat in the midst of a case. Generally I have brushed aside his well-meaning but inconvenient advice, preferring to use my blood to power my brain, not my digestive tract. I even went so far once to characterize myself as a brain first and foremost, with the rest of me a mere appendix to be used or ignored at will. It was a ridiculous statement, one Watson rightfully scoffed at (with that writerly gleam in his eye that usually means I will find myself misquoted quite out of context in one of those fanciful tales of his, probably when I least expect it). Indeed, I knew better myself, even then. I could not excel in boxing, stick-fighting, or fencing if I did not understand and appreciate the importance of a sound, well-trained, reasonably maintained body as well as an agile mind.

But never more so than now, when I cannot lift a finger to save myself – or Watson.


	2. Chapter 1: Camel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Doctor Watson finds himself called into service and does not forget old acquaintances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: For this chapter, Victorian medical practices and attitudes towards women, men, and childbirth. Assumes knowledge of some minor canon characters, but knowledge on the reader's part is not required.

# Chapter One: Camel

  _… father, is not (now) my theme…_

In which Doctor Watson finds himself called into service and does not forget old acquaintances.

 

_Doctor Watson:_

 

It is not often these days that I am recalled to my original profession. My work with Holmes has become my full-time occupation far more than my practice as a doctor of medicine. Ever since his return in 1894, Holmes has insisted that we share the fees from those cases where I assist him, and I am involved in almost every case he takes. Almost immediately after the resumption of our partnership, that money far surpassed that from my wound pension, and soon eclipsed the renumeration I received from the few patients I had left, the ones who remained stubbornly loyal to me despite my erratic schedule and lack of dedicated consulting-room and surgery.

Yet I do retain a few clients, and I obey the call of those who depend on my professional services as a doctor on the rare occasions when those needs arise. One such demand arose this very morning, just as Holmes and I were descending the stairs. One look at Homer Lewis’ flushed, sweating face and wild-eyed expression, and I knew I would not be accompanying Holmes and our latest client after all.

Holmes knew it as well as I. “I take it the first scion of the house of Lewis has decided to make an early appearance?” he said, reaching out to steady the young man.

“Oh, Doctor Watson, thank goodness,” Lewis panted, ignoring Holmes’ pleasantry entirely. “It’s Margaret. She wants you straight away.”

Mrs. Homer Lewis was strong-bodied and wide-hipped, and as little likely to need my professional help bringing her child into the world as any woman in London. But as a first-time mother – and the orphaned daughter of a woman who had died too young from complications of childbirth – she wanted a doctor at hand, and Homer Lewis would have no doctor but my own self. He had come a long way from the surly, half-wild lad whose broken leg I had successfully splinted shortly after I started sharing rooms with Holmes. He was one of the earliest of the Irregulars I had met, and one of the few who through luck and determination (and, I suspected, at least a little help from Holmes behind the scenes) had found his way out of the terrible poverty of the slums. A chance at an apprenticeship had turned into a respectable trade and a far better life than all too many of his former fellows. His change in circumstances, however, had by no means lessened the attachments he had formed to his friends in the Irregulars, to Holmes, and to me.

Our latest client, Sir Mortimer Sperry, made a restless motion where he stood on the stairs behind Holmes. He was too well-bred to show his emotions openly, so I could not tell if he was offended, or merely impatient with the delay. “Mr Holmes, I expected your full attention when I made my appointment – ”

“And you have it,” my friend interrupted smoothly. “I shall accompany you to your townhouse without delay. Watson shall either join us there, time permitting, or I will brief him fully on the matter when I return to Baker Street.” He nodded at me, and the quick glance we exchanged conveyed far more information than any observer might ever suspect: his anticipation for the case; his amused derision for the self-importance of his client; his strict injunction that I join him as soon as I could; his clear expectation that I would _not_ join him until the Lewis family no longer required my services. I’m sure he saw even more in the look I gave him. Holmes has always been able to read me like an open book.

“Good luck,” he added, clearly seeing my agreement with his stated plan. “Mr Lewis, my best wishes for a speedy delivery. Sir Mortimer, I am at your disposal.” He stepped into Sir Mortimer’s waiting coach without any assistance from the hovering footman, leaving the servant to help his master.

Sir Mortimer appeared nonplussed by this turn of events, but there was really nothing for him to do but to follow Holmes into the coach. By the time I turned to follow Homer, the well-matched horses were pulling the coach away from the curb under the expert guidance of the coachman, and the footman lost no time springing up behind.

I already had my medical bag with me, and there was no point in returning inside to trade my heavier walking-stick for the one I carried on more casual errands. Homer scarcely stopped thanking me long enough to draw breath the entire journey to the small set of rooms he shared with his wife. I admit I was almost relieved to leave him in the sitting-room – with a glass of brandy in hand, one I poured from my flask, a doctor’s surest prescription for a nervous father-to-be – while I attended Mrs Lewis in the bedchamber.

Happily, Mrs Lewis proved just as able as I had expected. The labour was not quick, this being a first delivery, but there were no complications. Some hours after I arrived, I eased little Miss Lewis from her mother’s body and grinned at the strong wail of protest with which she heralded her arrival. I heard a clatter in the sitting-room. I half expected to see Homer Lewis make a precipitous appearance. He would not be the first father I’d seen burst into the birthing chamber, but Homer had more self-restraint than I expected. I was able to clean the child, settle her into her basket, and attend to the afterbirth and the comfort of the mother without any disruptions. At last I settled the babe in her mother’s arms and left them long enough to bring in the new father.

I was not entirely surprised to find that Homer had company. It is not unusual for friends to gather, and is certainly the most common reason for a father not to make an appearance. Calmer heads prevail, and if that calmer head happens to also bring along a flask of strong spirits to help enforce that calm, well, that too has its uses. Homer was far from the first new father who would meet his child with slightly glassy eyes and the smell of cheap gin on his breath.

I was, however, surprised to recognize the two young men who had come to help steady his nerves with their company as well as a liquid remedy. They had both changed, in one case greatly, in the other to a lesser degree, but neither one had altered so much that I did not know them both. As soon as I had congratulated Homer and sent him in to see his wife and meet his daughter, I turned a smiling face to his guests. “Wiggins! And Cartwright! I’m delighted to see you. It’s been entirely too long.”

Wiggins grinned, teeth flashing from the depths of his beard, and for an instant I caught a glimpse of the mischievous, precocious, scrawny lad who’d been the first chief of Holmes’ Irregulars inside the giant of a man he’d become. “I’m glad to see you too, Doctor Watson, but I wager not half so glad as old Homer was.”

Cartwright snorted. In appearance, he had not changed very much from the tall, independent young fellow who’d acted as Holmes’ servant and errand-boy on the moor, but a full moustache graced the still-youthful face. His sharp eyes were the same as ever, keen and full of good humour. “He was certainly glad to see the flask. You’d think Homer would keep a bottle handy in case of just such emergencies, but …”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Wiggins said mildly, but with conviction. “Nor will he ever, not even if he and his missus go on to have a dozen babies. Probably especially not then.”

Cartwright’s eyes brightened, sensing a story. It was the same instinct that made him so valuable to Holmes as a boy, and what was making his fledgling career as a journalist a growing success. “Oh?”

Wiggins was too canny to be drawn out. “Another time,” he said easily, “or better yet, ask him yourself if you really want to know.”

“Somehow I doubt today’s the best day to do it,” Cartwright chuckled. “Another time, though, and you can be sure I shall.” He returned his attention to me. “You’re looking well, Doctor. How is Mr Holmes these days? He seems determined to avoid being in the papers, and I know you haven’t published anything recently. Yet I keep hearing bits and pieces that lead me to believe that he’s as busy with cases as ever.”

“Very much so,” I agreed. I could say that much without worrying about breaking any confidences. “In fact, I was just on my way out with him when Mrs Lewis changed my plans. I expect Holmes has already returned to Baker Street by now.” I looked down at my shirt-cuffs and waistcoat, now both the worse for my exertions, and ruefully concluded that I would be all the better physically for a change of linen as much as for the mental lift of hearing about Holmes’ new case.

“Are you going directly there?” Cartwright asked. “I’d like to come with you, if so. I’ve been meaning to pay a call on Mr Holmes, but he’s not the sort you pay a social call to, really, and I’ve had no business to bring him. But if you don’t mind a bit of company on the journey to Baker Street, Doctor, I’d be glad of the excuse to accompany you.”

“I wouldn’t mind saying hello to him myself,” Wiggins rumbled.

“If he’s in, I’m sure he’d be glad to see you both,” I assured them, and meant it. Holmes was not known for being a sentimental man – rather the opposite, in fact – and there was a great deal of truth in that reputation. He was not particularly sentimental about his clients, or about those he knew only casually, or about humanity in general. But I knew him well enough to understand that he cared a great deal for those he considered _his_ , whether by blood, convention, or connection: his landlady; his Irregulars; his brother; his associate and friend.

He was not outwardly demonstrative of his feelings. Indeed it was entirely possible to miss them, even when you were one of the ones he cared for. He was subtle in his approval and his support in ways that he never was when it came to his disapproval and irritation. But I had learned at least a little about observation from Holmes in the years we had known each other, and I had seen the evidence. Wiggins and Cartwright might not be regular Irregulars any more, but they were still his Irregulars in Holmes’ eyes, two of his boys, grown though they might be. He would be as glad to see them as they were eager to see him, although he would never say so.

We left the little Lewis family happily settled and hailed a cab to Baker Street. Wiggins practically had to fold himself over double in order to fit himself inside; his knees were nearly to his chin. Despite that, he and Cartwright shared a lively conversation full of reminiscences of their Baker Street days: where the best spots were for standing and looking out while keeping out of the weather; which street-sellers had the best chestnuts; who kept close watch on their back gates and who was likely not to notice a boy slipping through; and a hundred other details that I’d never troubled to be aware of. It was humbling, and somewhat disturbing. Their Baker Street and mine bore far less resemblance to each other than I ever could have guessed. The greatest commonality we shared was Holmes, and to a somewhat lesser extent, Mrs Hudson. Both young men (not boys, I had to keep reminding myself) viewed her with a half-terrified, fully awestruck devotion that seemed more appropriate directed to a deity than a landlady – and yet I too held her in the highest respect.

Their talk continued until we turned the corner onto Baker Street itself. As one, they looked out the cab windows. And nearly as one, they frowned.

“There’s someone in the spot by Johnson’s shop,” Cartwright said, no trace of humour in his voice.

“And there’s a bloke sitting in the deep corner near the bookseller’s shop, the one that provides the best shadow,” Wiggins rumbled.

I, too, had looked out the cab windows, but in a different direction. “It looks as if Holmes isn’t back yet, I’m afraid,” I told them. “Either that, or he’s been and gone again.”

“Never mind, Doctor. We’ll see you to your door in any event,” Cartwright assured me. “Even if Mr Holmes isn’t in, it will be nice to see the place again.”

It was all said pleasantly, with smiles. Wiggins and Cartwright looked perfectly good-humoured and at ease. But I had heard what they’d said, and understood it. I might not know to look in the corners that they’d looked into (and I really needed to learn what they knew), but I had been with Holmes for many years. I had learned to look for certain signs, been taught to watch for others. Our current Irregulars had their ways, just as these past Irregulars must have had. I read those signs, so I knew as well as Cartwright and Wiggins did that Baker Street was being watched, and watched by unknown (and presumably unfriendly) individuals. Yet I said nothing directly about it, any more than they had done. “I’m sure Mrs Hudson will be delighted to see you whether Holmes is in or not. Come upstairs with me, and I’ll see if I can’t persuade her to serve some shortbread along with a pot of tea.”

Wiggins’ expression became wistful for a brief moment, and when he spoke, his words and accent carried more of the street boy he’d been. “Cor. Mrs Hudson’s shortbread – I usedta dream ‘bout that. I never had nothing so good afore, nor since fer that matter.”

“I don’t think anyone makes a better shortbread anywhere in London,” Cartwright agreed.

“I’ve never found any to match it anywhere, not in England or abroad.” The cab rolled to a stop, and the cabbie got down from the box to open the door. “Let’s hope she has plenty to give us.”

The sitting-room was empty, much as I expected, with no sign that Holmes had returned and then left again. I had scarcely settled Wiggins and Cartwright onto the settee before I heard footsteps on the stairs. I opened the door to find Mrs Hudson and the maid, the latter carrying a well-laden tea-tray.

“I kept the kettle hot, knowing you’d likely want a cup after such a day,” she explained modestly when I uttered my surprise at the rapid delivery. “And I heard other steps beside yours, so I knew you must have visitors… Good heavens! Is that Mr Cartwright? And my goodness, Mr Wiggins, how you have grown!”

The two young men leaped to their feet as soon as Mrs Hudson appeared in the doorway. At her pleased recognition, they both grinned, and I was almost certain Cartwright blushed. They both took such shy, unalloyed pleasure in her questions and compliments, I had to hide a grin of my own. Mrs Hudson sent the maid down for a plate of her shortbread before any of us could think to request it, and remained happily chatting while waiting on its arrival.

“There now,” she exclaimed at last, having insisted on pouring out for everyone and ensuring both Wiggins and Cartwright each had a large serving of shortbread on their plates. “That should help revive you, and perhaps take the edge off of your appetites.” She eyed Wiggins dubiously as he picked up one of her shortbread pieces and took a small bite – small by his standards, anyhow, and yet it still consumed over half the biscuit. “Well, and there’s more in the kitchen, never fear.” She turned to me. “And I nearly forgot, Doctor; I have a telegram for you.” She reached into her skirt pocket and handed me the slip of paper.

I did not think anything of reading it immediately. I was not expecting anything momentous. But the few simple lines sent ice sliding down my spine.

“Doctor, what is it? Is something the matter?” Mrs Hudson’s alarmed voice broke into my whirling thoughts. She, Wiggins, and Cartwright were all staring at me with various degrees of concern. I inwardly cursed my unguarded countenance. I can maintain a reasonably impervious demeanour, no matter what Holmes might say, but only when I am prepared. Here in the comfort of our sitting-room, I had not been guarded, or ready to be so.

Then again, there was no real harm done. I would have had to inform her anyway, and I trusted Wiggins and Cartwright. “It is this wire,” I said as calmly as I could manage. “It asks me to join Holmes at Sir Mortimer’s townhouse as soon as possible.”

“Surely that’s not unexpected?” Cartwright, showing his journalist’s instinct for asking leading questions.

“No, not at all,” I agreed. “But although this telegram claims to be from Holmes, and bears Holmes’ initials, he did not write it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted April 23, 2019


	3. Chapter 2: Rook

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Holmes attempts to understand his circumstances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: For this chapter, suspense, confusion, and some unpleasantness.

# Chapter Two: Rook

_…madly deem…_

In which Holmes attempts to understand his circumstances.

 

_Sherlock Holmes:_

I hear a noise. No, noises. Distant, meaningless at first. I cannot make sense of them.

Where am I?

The noise wavers, distorted, seeming harsh and loud one moment, soft and almost non-existent the next. In contrast to the sound, there is no light at all. Everything is darkness.

Am I injured?

I rather think not. I can feel some distant aches, a vague awareness of mild discomfort, but nothing more.

Am I ill? Am I drugged?

Possibly. It is impossible for me to determine without more data.

How did I come here?

My brain, set to a task, begins its work, although much more slowly than usual. Thoughts and images come lethargically rather than the usual swift streams. I remember a coach. I remember getting into a coach.

Memory flashes, painting colours across my mind, filling the darkness.

_…Sir Mortimer’s coach was well-appointed, but some years out of date. I could not help but notice this as I entered it; observations such as these are second-nature to me. The interior was very clean for the most part. There were a few areas that had been missed by brush and polishing, and the dirt there was deep indeed, indicating either habitual neglect of these spaces, or a recent deep cleaning after years of indifferent or absent care…_

Yes. I remember this, can recall the texture of the seat cushions, the smells of wood and leather and old fabric. Sir Mortimer is my client. Sir Mortimer Sperry. I can see him sitting on the seat across from mine in my mind, tense, anxious, as my clients usually are.

Particularly when Watson isn’t with me.

Watson hadn’t been with me. At least not then.

Had he come later? What had happened?

Memory fails to provide an answer. I remember the coach, my client, and then nothing.

What can I learn now? My hearing continues to be unreliable, although gradually evening out. I think I can make out voices now, though words still elude me. My eyes…my eyes are closed. If I open them…

My eyes will not open.

I ruthlessly suppress the atavistic spike of anxiety this realization spears through me. Instead I try moving a hand, and then a foot, only to meet with similar failure. There must be a logical reason why I am failing at such basic tasks. Illness and weakness seem less likely than some kind of drug in my system. I have always been able to overcome the former two by sheer strength of will, but the latter – I can be held in the arms of Morpheus by morphine as easily as anyone, and as for cocaine…

No. Now is not the time to think about that, although the rush of energy it gives would be distinctly useful at this juncture. Just remembering its fires seems to clear my thoughts a little, make them run a little more efficiently.

Or perhaps it is just chance. Whatever the reason, I suddenly hear a man’s words, soft, anxious, but recognizable.

“…I assure you, sir, I am prepared for every contingency, however unlikely.” Whoever the speaker is, he is clearly addressing someone at some distance from me. Although his words suggest an attempt to build confidence, the lack of it in his tone works against him. “I even have a Fell-O’Dwyer apparatus ready to hand, although it should not be needed. My calculations are exact.”

“They had better be, Doctor. My client expects delivery in perfect condition. And I will take any failures very personally.”

Adrenaline, rage, and revulsion shocks through me. I know that second voice!

My eyelids fly open of their own volition. Despite feeling the need to strike out vibrating through every fibre of my being, I cannot consciously move a muscle. But I can see, and my eyes confirm what my ears have already told me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 originally posted April 30, 2019.


	4. Chapter 3: Picket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Watson determines a course of action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: For this chapter, mild swearing, speculation, planning.

# Chapter Three: Picket

  _… shrive me of the sin…_

In which Watson determines a course of action.

 

_Doctor Watson:_

Both young men exclaimed aloud, a variety of words entirely characteristic of each of them. Wiggins’ initial volley of curses, quickly followed by profuse apologies, mingled with Cartwright’s “How on earth can you tell that?”

I paid little mind to either of them, focused on Mrs Hudson’s quiet words. “Shall I send out messages, Doctor?”

She did not say what messages, or what they should contain. Holmes and I had agreed on certain protocols long ago, after one too many incidents forcibly taught us the necessity. “Yes, Mrs Hudson, I think so. To Mycroft Holmes and Inspector Lestrade, to start with. And call for Achsa Jacobs’ cab. I may send out a few wires of my own when I go out.”

“Go out? Where?” Cartwright’s eyes gleamed with curiosity tinged with alarm. Wiggins said nothing, but stared at me as if he could pluck the answer from my mind by sheer force of will, utterly ignoring Mrs Hudson as she left the room.

“To Sir Mortimer’s, of course.”

“But you said yourself that the telegram wasn’t from Mr Holmes!”

“It wasn’t.” I cut off Cartwright’s protest before he could say more. “I know that, but currently whoever sent it does not realize that I know this. They will not be expecting any trouble.”

“You’re going into a trap set for yourself, knowing it’s a trap, and hoping to catch the trappers,” Wiggins said shortly. It wasn’t a question.

“Essentially, yes.” Seeing the confusion on their faces, I explained a little more. “Right now whomever sent this telegram believes they have the upper hand in this situation; that they know what will come next. I can use that against them, if I act reasonably quickly on the summons. Too long, and they will suspect something has gone awry, and be more on their guard.”

“But you can’t mean to go on your own!”

“I won’t, if Inspector Lestrade gets my message quickly enough and is able to come along,” I temporized. Personally I thought it unlikely. The odds of Lestrade being at the Yard to receive my wire, and being free enough to act immediately upon it, were not particularly good. I had no doubt of his willingness, should he receive the message in time, and I believed he would do his very best to come, but Lestrade’s time is not his own, particularly not if he has other pressing cases. “But I cannot wait very long. We all know this house is being watched, and it’s not unreasonable to assume that they’re in league with whatever person or persons sent the telegram. They’ll know when I came back, and they’ll know their telegram was delivered before my arrival. They will assume the telegram will be handed to me reasonably promptly, and of course I will make short work of my visitors and answer Holmes’ summons.” I smiled briefly. “Your presence makes a minor delay believable, but only a small one.”

“Perhaps,” Cartwright said slowly. “I see the logic of what you’re saying, I do, at least as far as it goes, but I have to say, Doctor Watson, this seems a very risky venture you’re setting out on. Particularly if you go without the Inspector or any other sort of assistance to hand.”

“I shall go armed, of course,” I tried to reassure him. And Achsa Jacobs – who always preferred his full name, not the more common address of Mr Jacobs; a part and parcel of his mildly eccentric nature – was not only one of the most frequent cabmen to be found working this stretch of Baker Street, he was also a sometime patient of mine, a former client of Holmes, and a canny bruiser of a man. He considered himself in both our debts. Moreover, he had been delighted to be ‘involved’ in a few of Holmes’ cases where my friend and I had needed reliable transportation and a steady driver unafraid of possible trouble. Given the situation, I would be unwise indeed to step into a cab driven by a stranger, but Achsa Jacobs would be a welcome second if I could hire him.

“I’m agreed with Cartwright here.” Wiggins’ deep voice broke into my thoughts. “You oughtn’t to go alone. And you shan’t, not if I’ve anything to say about it. I think I could be just as handy as an Inspector in a tight corner if it came to it, and maybe moreso.” His fierce smile showed a great deal of anticipation and pride, if very little amusement.

“And I wouldn’t miss out on this for ten pounds,” Cartwright added. “I might not be able to use whatever story unfolds in the paper, not if Mr Holmes objects, but I’d hate myself for missing seeing whatever happens next.”

Cartwright’s excuse of a possible newspaper story was as transparent as Wiggins’ attempt to downplay his years of rough experience in the dangerous slums of London. Despite my anxiety, I felt myself warmed thoroughly by the obvious determination and loyalty of these two young men. “That is very kind of you both. But you can’t be seen leaving here with me.” I held up a hand as they began to protest. “No, no. I am accepting your offer, and I am deeply grateful for it. But I would not reply to Holmes’ summons with two young men in tow, and so I won’t be seen doing so. If, however, you were seen to leave Baker Street, and I departed in a cab a short time later, I doubt anyone would be around to observe it if I picked up two passengers on the corner of Oxford Street, just in front of the bookshop.”

Wiggins laughed. “I see. Well, I expect I still know how to leg it through the neighbourhood with no one else being the wiser. Think you can keep up, Cartwright?”

“Only if you can catch me first,” Cartwright retorted with a grin. “I’m more likely to fit through gaps in fences than you are, you giant.”

“Just make sure you’re seen leaving Baker Street,” I sighed.

“Oh, we will, never fear,” Wiggins assured me. “But if those watchers have any idea of followin’ us – well, they’ll be left wonderin’, that’s all.”

“And don’t you leave us standing at the corner,” Cartwright added, turning serious for a moment. “Give us your word you won’t leave us behind, Doctor.”

I had briefly considered it, but confronted so directly, I abandoned the half-formed thought without regret. “I won’t, I assure you.”

“That’s well, then. Let’s be off.”

The two young men made quite the noise clattering down the stairs and calling their goodbyes to Mrs Hudson. Left behind in the sitting-room, I felt the quiet rush in around me, accompanied by all the concerns I hadn’t let myself face, or voice, while they were still in my company.

Where was Holmes in all this?

It was entirely possible that he was perfectly fine, off on his own pursuing a line of inquiry for this case. It was entirely like him, and he did not always send word when he did so, particularly not if he meant to go in disguise. He had known that I was fully occupied with Mrs Lewis, after all, and that childbirth could take far more time than it had in this happy event. It was equally possible that he was still with Sir Mortimer, and that someone else had sent the wire for their own purposes. I – or whatever misfortune might be planned for me – might be meant as a distraction for Holmes, a means of diverting him from Sir Mortimer’s case. It had been attempted before.

Or Holmes himself might be in peril. Sir Mortimer’s troubles might be dangerous enough that his foes were striking out at all who tried to assist him, and their known associates.

It was useless to speculate without data, as my friend would be the first one to say if he were here. The only way to know was to go.

I hastily changed out of my soiled shirt, cuffs, and collar, replacing them with fresh garments and donning a more plainly-made, sober-coloured outfit in the process. I put my usual revolver in my doctor’s bag, and the spare revolver Holmes had given me in my coat-pocket. I made sure that I brought the pen that had a slim blade concealed at the other end (another gift from Holmes, and I still wondered where he had found such a thing), and even tucked the small set of lock-picks in the hidden pocket of my waistcoat. I was nowhere near as good at using them as Holmes, but given enough time, I could often produce the desired result. I made sure that my cane was the weighted one sturdy enough to block multiple blows without shattering.

I was as prepared as I could be. I would take no unnecessary chances. As a soldier and a doctor both, I knew that readiness was all, and prior preparation often meant the difference between success and failure. And like many soldiers, I sometimes had a sense of upcoming battle, a vague awareness of the seriousness of the fight before me. I felt it now, quite strongly. I had never mentioned such feelings to Holmes, who scoffed at even the slightest hint of premonition or the supernatural. But I knew better than to ignore such feelings when I had them.

I was closing my doctor’s bag when I heard a slight commotion at the door. I heard Mrs Hudson’s voice, and then light footsteps coming up the stairs. I turned just in time to see Lestrade come through the door in a rush.

“I understand that my arrival is somewhat fortunate,” he greeted me. “I was bringing an interesting incident to Mr Holmes, but Mrs Hudson tells me that he’s not in, and that there might be some trouble. I’ve a cab standing at the door, should we need it. What’s amiss?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter originally posted May 7, 2019.


	5. Chapter 4: Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Inspector Lestrade takes stock of the situation and finds many things dissatisfactory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: For this chapter, canon-typical violence and gore.

# Chapter Four: Knight

… _hath revell'd in_ …

In which Inspector Lestrade takes stock of the situation and finds many things dissatisfactory.

 

_Inspector Lestrade:_

I have never been so glad for coincidence in my life as when Doctor Watson told me about the telegram he’d received, and more to the point, what he intended to do about it. It was a plan entirely characteristic of the man: fearless, direct, and without an ounce of concern as to his own well-being as far as I could tell. Well, not entirely; he had apparently sent a wire to me at the Yard, which I’d probably find waiting for me on my return. He said he’d sent a wire to Mr Mycroft Holmes as well, which freed me from worrying about how I’d manage to find a moment to do so. And evidently he hadn’t turned away Wiggins and Cartwright when they’d offered to go with him, which was reassuringly plain common sense. Given what he told me, I dismissed the cab I came in and flagged down a four-wheeler. The two fellows were waiting at the corner as he’d said they would be; they crammed in without a word. Doctor Watson smiled welcomingly at them both, and they returned the favour, looking for all the world as if he’d granted them a treat. No, the doctor didn’t lack for sense, not really, at least not under normal circumstances.

But if there was an element of danger involved – if there were others at risk – well. It’s not that Doctor Watson is foolhardy or takes foolish risks. Mr Holmes would never stand for such a thing, any more than I would. He is as cool and as level-headed in a crisis as anyone I know. But he is also unsparing of himself, his health, his personal safety, in ways that are quite unlike anyone else I know, and that occasionally gives me (and those at the Yard who care about his welfare, which is a larger company of men than I think the doctor has any idea of) cause for concern.

I was concerned now. Not least because Doctor Watson himself was worried, although he took some pains not to show it. Cartwright (who had changed greatly since I’d seen him last) was uneasy too, from what I could see. Wiggins (whom I never would have recognized had the others not addressed him as such) was harder to read, particularly with that dark beard, but his very presence spoke volumes. He looked calm – probably was calm – but he’d never been afraid of trouble, even when he was a scrawny boy. He was a far cry from that now, and far more dangerous too. He wasn’t actively working on the wrong side of the law as far as I knew, and somehow I couldn’t see Mr Holmes allowing his little chief to go to the bad if he’d been able to help it. But I’d no idea how he earned a living these days, either. Boys from the slums rarely found honest jobs, and Wiggins’ size alone would have encouraged certain kinds of offers of employment.

No matter. He was here, and that was enough.

“What kind of problem did Sir Mortimer bring to Mr Holmes? Can you say?” I asked Doctor Watson.

The doctor blinked and gathered his thoughts from wherever they’d been. “He did not go into great detail, at least not while I was there. It was a matter of a strange series of messages,” he said. “He said he’d been the recipient of several over the past month. The manner of their delivery, scrawled in blue chalk on various parts of the back garden of his townhouse, and once on the front door itself, and the nonsensical content of them, were somewhat concerning. Sir Mortimer thought they might be a harmless prank at first, but two servants have given notice over them, and so he wanted Holmes to help put a stop to them.”

“It doesn’t sound as if there was any reason to believe it was an urgent matter, then,” I mused aloud.

“Nor did it sound particularly interesting,” the doctor agreed. “Then again, some of Holmes’ most complex and bizarre cases have started with such relatively innocuous beginnings.” He gave me a small smile. “I have learned never to try and predict what might develop. Holmes found it interesting enough to hear Sir Mortimer out and go with him to look for himself, and that alone suggests that he at least thought there was something to it out of the ordinary.”

And he hadn’t come back to Baker Street, at least not yet, and someone has tried to lure Doctor Watson out to Sir Mortimer’s home, I thought but did not say. There was no need; I’m certain the doctor was thinking much the same thing.

Sir Mortimer’s townhouse was in an area that had been fashionable since Queen Anne’s day at least. It wasn’t the most fashionable now, but it was still respectable enough. The lamplighters had just been starting their rounds when we left Baker Street. It was getting towards full dark by the time we arrived, and I was grateful to spring out of the four-wheeler and stretch my legs. Sir Mortimer’s house was only sparsely lit, unlike the homes to either side, and the hedges around it were taller and less shaped.

“It’d be easy enough to slip into the yard, given the greenery,” Cartwright commented in a quiet voice to Wiggins.

“Not many to see you doin’ it, neither, if you chose the right time,” Wiggins agreed. “Or the right disguise. I imagine there’s a lot of deliveries in this part of town.”

“Not to this house, though, not by the look of it.” Cartwright’s eyes darted back and forth, taking everything in. “It doesn’t look like much money’s been spent here, not until recently, and even then not overmuch.”

I wondered how much Cartwright realized that he sounded like Mr Holmes, and whether it was intentional at all. I saw Doctor Watson give the younger man a gently amused look.

My knock at the door was eventually answered by a middle-aged manservant. He looked surprised to find a group of men at the door, and wary when I introduced myself. His unease was not noticeably lessened when I asked to see Sir Mortimer.

“He’s in his study, on important business. He’s been there since mid-afternoon, and he ordered us not to disturb him for any reason,” the servant objected. He squinted at me, and then at the others. His eyes lingered on Doctor Watson and his medical bag.

“Is he with another gentleman?” I asked in my best official manner.

The servant hesitated, but when I did not look away or alter my expression, he sagged and gave way. “Yes, sir, he is.”

“Then we’re expected. Please take us to him at once.”

“Very well sir, but if I might ask – is that gentleman a doctor?”

I spoke quickly, before Doctor Watson had a chance to reply. “What business is that of yours?”

“None, sir, except we’ve got a housemaid who’s been terrible sick with a bad toothache and fever all day. It’s not my place to ask, of course, but we’re that worried about her. It’d be a pure kindness if maybe he could come tend her while you’re seeing to your business with Sir Mortimer.”

A coincidence, or another attempt to lure Doctor Watson away? I wasn’t about to take any chances. Thankfully Doctor Watson’s attention was on me, clearly expecting to follow my lead, and not on the servant and his tale of woe. “Sir Mortimer’s business is with all of us, and ours is with him. Now take us to him with no further delays.”

The inside of the house told a similar tale to the outside. I noted the state of the furniture, expensive in its day, but clearly outdated. The place was clean enough, but not well lit, and strangely empty of the signs and sounds of other servants. I remembered what Doctor Watson said about servants having given notice, and I wondered if it had been more than just the two of his report.

The servant stopped before a double set of impressive oak doors. A bright line of light beneath them indicated that this room, at least, was well illuminated. The man knocked politely against the polished surface.

No answer came to his knock.

The servant knocked again. “Sir Mortimer?”

No answer. No sound of any kind. No indication that anyone had heard.

The servant’s third knock was noticeably louder than the first two, although his voice was shakier. “I beg your pardon, sir, but there are gentlemen here to see you.”

Nothing.

The servant tried the doorknobs. “It’s locked,” he said, rather unnecessarily.

I knocked myself this time, a thunderous barrage that bore no resemblance to the servant’s polite taps. “Sir Mortimer?” I called, using the full power of my voice. “Are you unwell?”

Silence.

I turned to the servant. “Do you have a key for this door?”

“For Sir Mortimer’s study?” The servant seemed shocked. “No, sir, at least I don’t think so. There might be one on the housekeeper’s ring. We’re never to go in when the door is locked.”

“Is it often so?”

“Sometimes,” the man said cagily, looking twice as uneasy as he had before.

“Well, something’s clearly not right now. We need to get inside. Your master may have fallen ill. Go and fetch the housekeeper’s keys, and more servants while you’re at it. We might need to break down the door.”

The man practically bolted down the hall and disappeared down a set of servant’s stairs.

Wiggins crouched down next to the keyhole as soon as the servant was gone, somehow managing to fit his eye practically up against the opening despite his size. “Blocked,” he said briefly. “Looks as if the key’s still in it. If we had a bit of paper now, and something thin, we might be able to poke the key out of the hole and onto the paper, and then through the gap between the door and the floor. The gap’s pretty large, for all that the oak is so thick.”

“I’ve got paper.” Cartwright pulled out a journalist’s notebook and tore out a page.

“And I believe I have an instrument or two that might serve.” I expected Doctor Watson to reach into his doctor’s bag, but instead he pulled something out from the inside of his coat, or perhaps it was from his waistcoat, and handed it to Wiggins. In the relative dimness of the hallway, I could not see exactly what it was.

Wiggins whistled. “Cor,” he muttered. “Yeah, that’ll do all right, even if we’ve no luck with the paper.” He gave Doctor Watson a funny look, and me a thoughtful one, then settled down to his work. Cartwright slipped the paper under the door, and Wiggins adjusted the sheet so it was placed as best as it might be. He then poked at the keyhole with something pulled from whatever the doctor had given him.

“Gently, lad.” I said it before I could think otherwise.

The corners of Wiggins’ eyes crinkled in amusement, although he never took his attention away from his task. “Yes indeed, Inspector. Gently does it.”

We all heard the sound of the key dropping from the lock. Wiggins eased the paper out from under the door, key and all. He handed it to me with a smile and hastily got out of the way.

I quickly unlocked the door and turned the handle. The door swung wide.

Every gas-light in the room was turned up fully, starkly illuminating the scene. Sir Mortimer sat stiffly upright behind his desk, his face white and set into a mask of terror with wide, sightless eyes. His coat was off, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows. A breeze from the open balcony window behind him ruffled his hair in a parody of life. His arms were stretched out on the desk in front of him, palms up in an unnatural pose. Almost as unnatural as the deep slashes following the paths of the veins on both forearms. The desktop blotter was entirely crimson, and rivulets dripped slowly onto the rug beneath the desk.

There was no sign of Mr Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter originally posted May 14, 2019.


	6. Chapter 5: Elephant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Holmes reflects on the miracles of modern medicine and scientific discovery – and the horrors that man can make of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** For this chapter, involuntary drugging, psychological torture, threats of violence, references to canon. If anything in that list sounds triggering to you, now is the time to switch to something else. My drabbles are generally a safe choice.

# Chapter Five: Elephant

… _no time to_ _dote or dream_ …

In which Holmes reflects on the miracles of modern medicine and scientific discovery – and the horrors that man can make of them.

 

_Sherlock Holmes:_

 

I strive to move with every fibre of my being. I can do nothing but sit as I am, unmoving, and stare at a man I have sought for so long.

The years had not been kind to him. His once lily-fair, unmarred complexion is coarsened, weathered by time, climate, and either unhealthy habits or possibly disease. He has been somewhere with a great deal more sun than England until just recently. Which is not entirely a surprising revelation, given that neither I nor Mycroft have been able to find any trace of him within her borders. Had he been in England all this time, our combined efforts would have found him long before now. He has gained some weight, bulk thickening his shoulders and waist and softening the lines of his square jaw. His sideburns are still long, but thicker than they had been and shaped out towards the chin, possibly in an attempt to fool the eye into seeing a firmness in the jaw line that was no longer there. There are lines on his face that had not been there in our last encounter, around the eyes and mouth especially. His moustache is still military and well-trimmed, not long or thick enough to hide those mouth-lines that speak of bitterness, anger, and cruelty as loudly as any words could do. But his hair is still so blond as to appear almost white, and his eyes are still mismatched in colour but identical in cruelty.

They brighten as they alight on me.

“I believe your patient is finally awake, Doctor,” Junian King remarks to the portly man smiling nervously at him. “Or at least his eyes are open. Have you joined us at last, Mr Holmes?” He gives me a good-humoured grin as he walks closer. “Oh, don’t trouble yourself to try and rise, my dear sir, or indeed to even try to speak. I’m sure you’re most anxious to greet me, but I believe you’ll find yourself quite incapable.”

He is correct in that, at least. I cannot voluntarily move an inch, and it is not for lack of trying.

Junian King stops a few feet in front of me. From our relative angles, I can only assume I am seated on some kind of raised chair, or perhaps a chair on a platform of some kind. I lack any ability to look down to verify this. All I can see is dictated by the field of vision provided by the upright angle of my head. My upper torso is tilted backwards very slightly, my head as well as my back supported by whatever seat-back or cushion is behind me. The portion of the room behind King tells me relatively little. The furniture, what little there is of it, is new. A plainly-papered wall with a curtained window, and a half-curtained alcove or possibly some kind of passageway near the corner where two walls meet, is all I can see without being able to move my head. I cannot even move my eyes.

King’s smile fades slightly as he stares at me. “Doctor, can you be certain that Mr Holmes is awake?”

The plump fellow King addressed as a doctor moves forward, a stethoscope in hand. It looks very similar to the one Watson keeps in his medical bag. For a moment I fear it might be Watson’s actual stethoscope, but there are subtle visual dissimilarities I can distinguish even in my incapacitated state. “I should be able to tell, yes, Mr King,” the doctor says as he reaches for my chest. I feel him open my shirt-front and put the instrument in place just above my heart. “It would help if you spoke to him on a subject of some interest.”

“Is that all? How fortunate! There’s nothing easier in the world,” King laughs, “except perhaps to know where to begin. I suspect there is much about me that would interest Mr Holmes right about now, not to mention I’m sure he’s curious about the details of his own condition. That would be at the forefront of the brain of any other man, I’m sure, but it’s entirely possible that Mr Holmes would be even more interested in what my plans are, now that I find myself back in London again. I’ve been away until very recently, pursuing business opportunities when they presented themselves. Fortunately for me, my business was never entirely limited to London, or even to England. Even more fortuitously, some of my business associates were in a position to assist me when I found it necessary to relocate.” King’s mouth tightens briefly, and then he gives me a genial smile that holds absolutely no warmth or sincerity. “Although those circumstances also changed. Whether you knew it or not, Mr Holmes, you managed to discommode one of my associates and dearest friends even more than you did myself. Or rather, I should say the husband of my friend. I wonder, do you even remember the name of Baron Maupertuis?”

I do not feel myself move or give any visible sign. Indeed, I continue to rage against my inability to do so. But I certainly do remember the name, and those memories must raise my pulse or cause some other kind of detectable change. The doctor makes a satisfied noise. “Yes, sir, he’s awake and aware.”

“Thank you, Doctor, that is entirely good news, and most gratifying. I should hate to think I was speaking to someone still asleep or otherwise incapable of understanding me. You have done very well. Now I must ask you to withdraw, but kindly remain in calling distance. I have a few things to say to Mr Holmes in private, but I will want you to keep a close watch on your patient’s condition as soon as we have finished our conversation.”

“Of course, sir.” The doctor withdraws his stethoscope from my chest and steps away. He does not bother to close my shirtfront before hurrying out of the room.

King pays him no notice; his eyes remain fixed on me. “Yes, the dear Baroness has long been a great friend of mine, even before she married the Baron. We share many of the same interests, you see, and she was one of the first to invest in my business. We were partners in it for years, even as her interests turned to Europe and eventually to the Baron. When I found myself with a pressing need to leave London, she generously offered me an invitation to stay in one of her villas, to rest and recuperate and recover my footing, as it were. In turn, I was able to offer her some small assistance when she found herself in difficulties after the arrest of her husband. Alas, the Baron had some old-fashioned ideas about sheltering his excellent wife and did not think to make her aware of all of his concerns. Had he done so, I am sure she would have consulted me, and I would have gladly assisted them both. Dear me, I wish she had. I think you would have found your investigation into his work rather more difficult.”

I doubt that very much, but I can believe that I might have found myself in direct danger even earlier than I had. The Netherland-Sumatra Company case was one of the most involved investigations of my career at that point, but my removal from Baker Street to Lyons was only partially due to the convenience of closer coordination with my European sources. It provided the additional benefit of protecting Watson, and Mrs Hudson, from being potentially harmed in the attempts on my life. I had anticipated the onset of them only barely in time.

King leans forward, bringing his face closer to mine. His odd eyes stare into my own. “The Baroness loved her husband very much, Mr Holmes. Very much indeed. While he remained alive and in prison, she was unable to access much of his remaining resources and estate, either to provide him succour, or to arrange for suitable actions to revenge his condition. But now that he has passed away – did you know that he died in prison just six months ago, Mr Holmes? I wonder.”

I did not know. That was a failure on my part, but even if I had known, I would not have seen this danger. I knew about his wife, the Baroness – at least that she existed, and a little about her background, a very little. But she never factored heavily in my investigation, and I certainly never recognized her as a threat. I never uncovered any kind of connection between the Baroness and Junian King, not when I investigated him, and not when I investigated the Baron.

What else had I missed? My investigation after Watson’s abduction and ordeal uncovered King’s parentage and background, his schools and early life. I learned about his attempted military career, which ended almost before it truly began. Between Mycroft’s connections and my own, we had been able to gather some hints as to what the true cause of its termination might have been, rather than the deceptively innocuous ‘ill health’ recorded in the official papers. But nothing official, nothing concrete, and his life between leaving the military and his early career as a procurer remained a blank neither of us could fill in, despite all our mutual efforts. Had he met her then? What more had I failed to notice, failed to uncover?

“Even if you did know, I doubt you took very much notice of it.” King’s hateful voice echoes my thoughts. “But his death made his affairs much less involved. The Baroness now has full control of his estate, as guardian for their son. And she is under much less scrutiny now that the Baron is a footnote in the eyes of the French government, which has allowed her more freedom to use her…less conventional resources, shall we say? Which brings us to this moment, and to you.” His smile grows positively broad. “The Baroness, knowing both my expertise in procuring rare and valuable artefacts, and your personal effect on my career, has hired me to bring you to her. Alive, I assure you, and in as perfect a condition as can be arranged. She has her own plans, you see, and lessons she wants to be able to give to her son. Lessons that require you to be in excellent health, at least at the beginning.”

He shrugs in an elaborate fashion, clearly for effect. He knows her plans, that is plain enough, but will not speak of them, all the better to draw out fear and terror. I recognize the tactic.

“I have my own grievances against you, Mr Holmes, as you well know. In other circumstances, I would even now be taking payment out of your person. But I am a businessman, and as a personal friend to the Baroness, I recognize the justice of her greater claim upon you. So I shall bring you to her just as I have promised to do, and I shall not harm you in any way. No, even the _woorara_ that holds you fast, and enables me to have this charming conversation with you, is harmless enough when administered properly. I have hired an expert to ensure it, in fact. He is the one who has advised your current course of treatment, right down to the special chair you sit in, and the mode of your rather unusual form of dress.”

My dress? I cannot look down or observe myself to know anything about how I am dressed beyond what I can see in my peripheral vision. I know I am wearing my shirt, or at least a shirt; I cannot be sure it is the one I put on this morning. I try to concentrate on sensation, my sense of touch, to know more, but it is difficult, particularly when King keeps on speaking.

“The doctor shall help make sure that you arrive in perfect health and condition. He will observe the curtailing of the drug once we arrive at her location, so that eventually you are just as able to move and speak as you were this morning.” His eyes gleam. “I know that she would be very disappointed if you remained as you are now. Indeed, I find this conversation rather less satisfying than I had anticipated, with you such a silent and wooden participant. I know she looks forward to every sound from your lips, every involuntary movement and attempt to avoid her just chastisement. I share her views and will enjoy every moment of observation.”

His smile dims, and his expression changes into something so pleasant on the surface, and yet so cold and malicious underneath, that I might well recoil if I were able to do so. He leans in close to me and inserts one hand in the gap left in my shirtfront. I feel the warm skin of his palm come to rest directly over my heart.

“Before we can leave the country and journey to such pleasantries, however, there is the matter of Doctor Watson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted May 21, 2019.


	7. Chapter 6: War Engine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Watson learns some things and helps others to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** For this chapter, a thorough and moderately graphic description of a dead body, its wounds, and how it might have gotten into the state it’s in; psychological horror.

# Chapter Six: War Engine

 _…_ _that fire of fire…_

In which Watson learns some things and helps others to see.

 

_Doctor Watson:_

I hurried forward to Sir Mortimer, although it was clear from the first glance that the man was quite dead. Blood no longer flowed from those horrid slashes on his arms, his chest was still, and his eyes…his eyes were the eyes of a dead man. In my experience, no living man has eyes like that, and all dead men, no matter _how_ recently dead, did. A quick examination confirmed it. “I believe Sir Mortimer has been dead for at least a few hours,” I told Lestrade quietly, not wanting to disturb him in his own examinations, but knowing he needed the information.

“Thank you, Doctor,” he replied, frowning at Sir Mortimer’s arms. He glanced up, not at me, but at Wiggins and Cartwright, who had moved to the open window. “Mr Wiggins?”

Wiggins drew his head back inside and stood straight. “Yes, Inspector?”

“I’d be much obliged if you’d stand outside the door and prevent any servants – or anyone at all, actually – from entering this room until the police arrive. The fewer distractions we have to deal with, the better.”

I almost missed seeing Wiggins’ brief smile, it came and went so quickly. “I believe I can do that without too much trouble, Inspector.”

Lestrade’s smile was longer-lasting. “Thank you. Mr Cartwright, I will blow my whistle out the window, but I’m not sure that will be enough to summon the local constable. If not, I’ll need you to either fetch one, or to send servants to do so. And then I need you to send a wire to Scotland Yard, asking them to send someone – preferably Inspector Gregson.”

The name surprised me. As far as I knew, he still didn’t care for Gregson much, nor did Gregson much like Lestrade. Still, over the years they had learned how to work together far better than they had when I first knew them, and work around each other in the places where they simply could not work together. And in this case, I suspected Lestrade wanted him because we both knew he could keep quiet when necessary, and that he too values Sherlock Holmes.

“I’ll manage it, never fear, Inspector, even if I have to drag a bobby – er, a constable with me by force,” Cartwright answered cheerfully. “And Inspector, seeing as you’re about to look out the window anyway, well… I’m sure you’ll see it easily enough yourself, but it wouldn’t be hard for anyone who knows what he’s about to get down to the street from this window.”

“And if he’d any skill at all, he wouldn’t leave much of a mark, either, unless he’s someone about my size,” Wiggins added. “Moreover, the lock on this window’s a joke.”

“Thank you for the expert opinions, gentlemen,” Lestrade said politely, without a trace of sarcasm. “I will take them under advisement.”

Lestrade’s calls on his whistle were eventually answered by another, faint at first but growing louder with every repeat despite the growing commotion in the hallway outside. I could clearly hear Wiggins’ deep voice through the closed doors, turning away all comers. In the meantime, I occupied myself by studying the wounds visible on Sir Mortimer’s forearms. Several things about them troubled me, and the more I looked, the more I had difficulty believing what my eyes told me. Yet the evidence was clear. I looked more closely at Sir Mortimer’s face, and there, too, I found traces that made no sense to me, unless… A horrible suspicion arose in my mind, entirely terrible, yet it would explain so much, no, it would explain _everything_ the evidence told me.

“Have you learned anything, Doctor?”

Lestrade’s courteous question jolted me back to awareness. I had been so lost in my own thoughts that I had failed to notice the cessation of his whistles and his approach. “I’m certainly seeing some strange things,” I admitted, my mind still in turmoil.

“We have probably another five minutes before the local constable arrives. What can you tell me?” Lestrade did not voice _before anyone else is nearby to hear_ , but I understood the unspoken rest of his sentence well enough.

“Sir Mortimer appears to have bled out from his injuries. Certainly the cuts along his veins were sufficient to cause such an outcome.” I hesitated briefly, then decided to continue as I would if I were speaking to Holmes. “They are very precisely made; the work of an expert, either a doctor or someone who has studied anatomy and has a great deal of practice with sharp blades. They could have been made with a large scalpel or a delicate knife with a flexible blade. There is no sign of either arm having moved, either when the cuts were made, or indeed anytime afterwards.”

“How can you tell that?” Lestrade asked, sounding inquisitive, not doubting.

“These incisions are too exact, and too symmetrical, to have been made in this way if the victim had moved at all during the process. Moreover, although there is a great deal of blood on his arms and on his desk blotter, the patterns of the blood flow show no sign of disturbance or change from their initial courses, as there would have been had Sir Mortimer moved at all, even slightly.”

“But they were not made post-mortem.” It was more of a statement than a question.

“Definitely not. They bled profusely, and as I said before, the loss of blood was most likely the cause of death.”

“Sir Mortimer must have been unconscious, then.”

I swallowed, considering what to say next. I would not have hesitated to speak my conclusions had Holmes been here, but then again, if Holmes were here, there would be no need for me to say them. He’d have already seen it. “I don’t think so.”

Lestrade had been shifting back and forth as he looked over Sir Mortimer, the chair, and the desk, but now he stilled. “What do you mean, Doctor Watson? What makes you say that?”

I pointed to Sir Mortimer’s face, careful not to touch anything. “See those marks? It looks very much like the residue of tears. It would take a significant quantity to leave those kinds of traces, but that also matches the large patches of water-spotting on Sir Mortimer’s silk cravat.” To my eye, the delicate fabric still looked damp, but I was not the expert Holmes was.

Lestrade came closer and peered closely at both the skin of Sir Mortimer’s face and the water-stained fabric of the cravat. He frowned and looked down at Sir Mortimer’s wrists. “I don’t see any signs of bruising on the wrists, or any indications that he was restrained in any way.”

“I don’t either.”

The inspector graced me with an incredulous look. “Doctor Watson, I can hardly believe Sir Mortimer would simply _sit there_ and allow someone to slit his wrists and carve up his forearms. And your own conclusions about movement rule out suicide.”

“No,” I agreed. “This is neither active suicide – even without the evidence of the blood, the cuts would be impossible for a man to make on himself in this way – nor passive suicide, where someone else made the cuts on a willing person. A man, no matter how desperate or willing, could not possibly hold as still as Sir Mortimer must have done, for his arms to look as they do.”

Lestrade snorted, looking almost as exasperated with me as he often did with Holmes. “Then what are you trying to say? It’s not like you to be this difficult in coming to a point. You’re usually the plain-spoken one.” The inspector winced almost as soon as he’d said the words, realizing a moment too late how they sounded, and thinking, no doubt as I did, of the missing ‘other one’ that was uppermost in my mind. “My apologies, Doctor, but we have little time.”

“I’m the one that’s sorry, Inspector. I’m not trying to be obscure. I’m just having a difficult time reconciling what I’ve seen here, much less explaining it out loud to anyone else.” I felt an almost-involuntary smile tug at my lips, but it was an expression of rue, not mirth. “And perhaps I have spent a little too much time around Holmes.” My training and experiences as a doctor would have been enough for me to have seen a great deal of what I’d related to Lestrade, perhaps even most of it, but I was under no illusions that I would have understood a quarter of what it meant. I certainly wouldn’t have known enough to say what I was about to say next. “You’ll want to have Sir Mortimer’s body examined for an injection mark,” I said as steadily as I could. “It should be there to be found, if one of the wounds hasn’t been laid over it. The neck, perhaps, or the vein in one of the elbows; those are the most likely places, although there are others. There are certain chemical compounds, you see, ones that can paralyze a man. I have read reliable scholarly accounts of at least one such that can do so while leaving the drugged person perfectly conscious, aware, and capable of all involuntary movements such as breathing and blinking, but completely incapable of voluntary movement. Those subjected to the drug are able to hear, see, and feel everything that happens to them, despite being unable to move. The experience of the drug alone is said to be highly disturbing, even traumatic, particularly if the subject is unaware of how he came to be in such a state.” I remembered first finding the reference to one such substance in the Lancet and bringing the journal article to Holmes’ attention. My friend was intrigued, as I had known he would be. He insisted on cutting it out and pasting it into one of his commonplace-books. I was sure that I could go back to Baker Street and find it carefully catalogued away, re-read it, rediscover details that I’d undoubtedly forgotten. But for now it was enough that I remembered the existence of such a thing.

No matter what Holmes occasionally says, Inspector Lestrade is no fool. He understood me at once and turned as pale as I felt. “Good God, Doctor,” he swore quietly. “You mean to say…”

“It explains the bloodstains, the lack of movement, and the tears,” I interrupted just as softly. “I sincerely hope I am wrong about this, Inspector, for if I am right, I can hardly think of a more cruel or sadistic a death.”

I was surprised when Lestrade paled even further at my words. He had spent years working with the worst that London had to offer, yet he looked almost stunned. Before I could inquire or reach out to him, he turned and leaned over the desk, examining Sir Mortimer’s forearms with even greater attention than before.

“I should have seen it for myself,” he muttered.

“What?”

Inspector Lestrade straightened, his face grim. “I’ve seen wounds like this before.”

“When?” The exclamation burst from my lips just as I heard furious knocking at the front door.

Instead of answering immediately, Lestrade pressed his lips together in a thin line. “We must give our statements to the local police, and make sure Sir Mortimer is taken to the Yard morgue,” he said at last. “And then, as soon as possible, we need to pay a call on Mycroft Holmes.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6 originally posted May 28, 2019.


	8. Chapter 7: Giraffe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Holmes remembers, must bear witness, and time stretches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** For this chapter, involuntary drugging, being trapped, helplessness, psychological torture, explicit descriptions of torture. Seriously folks – this is the stuff of nightmares. If any of that is triggering for you, please turn back now. You have been warned.

# Chapter Seven: Giraffe

_…it is but agony…_

In which Holmes remembers, must bear witness, and time stretches.

 

_Sherlock Holmes:_

Just hearing Watson’s name on King’s lips sends an icy chill of horror through me. My mind races, memory and conjecture spinning wildly.

Watson’s first encounter with King very nearly proved fatal for my friend – and that had been almost a side-effect of King’s malice. King’s true target at the time had been myself; Watson had merely been the leverage King intended to use against me to force me into compliance. Compliance with _what_ , I never learned; King had enjoyed toying with me entirely too much to be explicit while he had Watson, and then he had vanished, leaving too few clues to decipher his original intentions. And truthfully, I had not cared much what he had wanted either at the time or in the immediate aftermath. I was entirely focused on retrieving Watson, and then on my friend’s recovery. Whatever he had wanted, I would never have agreed to it.

No, I never cared much about what he had wanted from me, but I was made entirely too aware during and after the ordeal that King desired something from Watson – or rather, that he came to want Watson himself. He first made his interest in Watson known in his visit to our sitting-room, although it was still mostly disguised as leverage over me. His next message had proved his eventual undoing, thanks to Watson’s cleverness, but the inclusion of Watson’s cuffs and cufflinks was a deliberately personal touch. And his last missive, half of Watson’s collar – and only half – was a plain declaration of intent, at least as I read it.

My suspicions were confirmed once Watson was well enough to tell me what had happened to him while in King’s clutches. My friend is quite intelligent in his way, and he had plenty of opportunity to observe King’s depraved nature first-hand. He certainly noticed King’s resentment of military men, and he could hardly escape awareness of King’s sick pleasure in inflicting pain on him and on the others in his household. But my friend, for all his worldly experience, retains a certain – not innocence or naivety, nothing so simple as that – but a certain puzzling protection from a complete awareness of the utter depths of depravity some men are capable of. I have pondered this blind spot of his often over the years. There is no single word adequate in the English language to properly describe this aspect of Watson’s character. The best I have been able to categorize it in my mind is that Watson’s own innate sterling qualities, his core-deep honour, and thorough basic decency, prevents him from ever completely understanding (or sometimes even seeing) the absolute worst in humankind. A blind man can perceive the sun, feel its warmth, understand its existence, but not in the same way a man with vision sees and understands it. So it is with Watson. His soul lacks even the tiniest drop of true depravity, and so he cannot truly understand it in others, even though he is aware of its existence.

Given this, it was no surprise to me that my Watson never truly grasped the full import of King’s interest in him. He saw that interest, yes; that was clear enough both in what he told me afterwards, and from the journal Watson kept during his captivity. Watson recognized the sadist in King, the moral sickness, the tyrant and bully. I saw no evidence that he ever realized the challenge and attraction he held for King simply by being who and what he is: King’s utter opposite in all the qualities that matter.

I saw it then, reflected in King’s actions and Watson’s words. I see it even more clearly now in the avid anticipation in those mismatched eyes, hear it in the way King lingers over the syllables of Watson’s name.

“I was greatly disappointed by the abrupt termination of our time together. Your friend is a delightful companion, as I’m sure you’re well aware, but I doubt you have ever taken notice of some of his more unique qualities. Oh, don’t misunderstand me – I cast no aspersions on your observational powers. I simply doubt you have the same interests I do, or the same specialized fields of expertise.”

King smiles as if he can hear my inner snarl at his words. I have some knowledge of his field of ‘interest.’ If I could only move, I would strangle him on the spot.

“Very few men have the knowledge I do, or could tell you more about reaction to pain. Your friend is dull in almost all respects, but in this one area, he has shown signs of being quite, quite extraordinary; indeed, almost unique in my experience.” He taps his fingers against my chest, one at a time, while never breaking the contact between his palm and the space above my heart. “So much so that I really must renew our acquaintance. Now that should be simplicity itself. I had planned on securing both of you with the late Sir Mortimer’s assistance – oh yes! I forgot, you were quite unaware when you reached Sir Mortimer’s residence, and so do not know this part of your recent history. He did perform that part of his job correctly, I will admit that much. But he was paid to bring you both; he assured me most sincerely that he would. I need not tell you how displeased I was to find he had failed to live up to his word. I assure you he felt every bit of my displeasure most intimately. I left him contemplating the error of his ways along with his life’s-blood.”

I am not shocked, but the brazen way King tells me of his latest act of murder indicates just how certain he is that I am in his power and will remain so. I wish I felt he was overconfident. I have never been held in so secure a dungeon as now, in my own unmoving body.

“But Sir Mortimer’s blundering has cost me valuable time with Doctor Watson. We are scheduled to begin our journey to France in just about two days, which is scarcely enough time as it stands for me to adequately explore all the things I want to discover about him. Every minute of delay is one less minute I shall have with the dear fellow. I cannot tell you how disappointed this makes me – but I can at least entertain myself by going over my plans with you. You won’t be able to give me any feedback on them, naturally, but I expect they will be of interest all the same.”

The satisfied gleam in his eye, and the theatricality of his words, tells me plainly that King is already thoroughly enjoying exercising his sadistic nature. I know of it, and so I am both prepared and warned. This is the beginning of my true torment, but I have been tortured before. I can resist him.

King begins telling me of his plans. I realize very quickly that I was deluding myself. I am not at all prepared to hear what he has to say, but I can do nothing but listen.

King describes in painstaking detail how he will peel away every inch of skin on Watson’s bad shoulder, fully exposing the scarred tissue beneath the epidermis. How he will probe and manipulate the revealed muscles and tissue to view every detail, achieve every possible iota of pain. He speculates extensively on Watson’s reactions to every moment.

I can see it all in my mind. I cannot help myself. I cannot stop.

King removes his hand from my chest in order to withdraw a handkerchief and delicately blot his mouth with it. His pupils are dilated, his cheeks flushed. He is visibly aroused just by articulating this long-thought-out horror. The evidence is clear; he has thought of this often, planned and re-planned his every action.

He puts away the handkerchief and begins speaking again, this time about Watson’s hands. Exactly where he will break each finger. How he will carefully dislocate joints and knuckles. He knows precisely how much force it takes to snap a middle phalange compared to a proximal one, what combination of twisting and pressure most effectively dislocates the joints between the proximal phalanges and the metacarpal bones. He tells me how he will repeat this process on Watson’s feet before removing the skin from his arches. He speculates on what the exact point in the process will be when Watson begins screaming.

Every horrifying word paints a vivid picture in my mind’s eye. Memory supplies even more detail of similar injuries, seen on the living survivors and the pallid corpses of King’s victims as well as elsewhere. It is a cacophony of vicious, appalling madness, and I cannot shield myself from it, no matter how hard I try. I cannot look away. I cannot stop my ears from hearing, or my mind from processing the vile stimuli presented to it. It is as I told Watson once; my mind must have material to work on, or it tears itself to pieces. Only here, in this place, unable to move or escape, the only material before me is what King has placed in front of it, and the engine races on even as the grotesque fuel threatens to choke off my reason entirely.

He keeps speaking, abyssal horrors spilling from his lips in even greater profusion, his words speeding up and tripping over themselves as his plans excite him further with every passing revelation.

My chest aches with the words I cannot shout. My head throbs, overwhelmed, repulsion and rage twin bands of agony within my skull. And my body sits passively, quietly, uselessly.

I learn that I have no control over my bodily functions in this state. I speculate from the lack of dampness and the faint sound of liquid splashing that I am not wearing trousers or underclothes, and that the chair – or device, or contraption – I am seated in must have an opening to some kind of chamber pot. My lower limbs are not cold, and I feel fabric laying lightly against the top of my thighs. A blanket? A robe? I cannot look, cannot know.

And try as I might, I cannot distract myself with my physical state, the humiliation and helplessness of it. King’s voice drones on. I cannot block out his words.

“I will leave his face entirely untouched, even at the end, when I slit his throat,” King concludes at last. “I need him to be quite recognizable, you see, when the tip I send to the Yard brings a constable or inspector here. I want as much police attention as possible focused on finding the persons responsible for the murder of the poor doctor, and on the sighting of a tall dark-haired man in a well-to-do part of London, leaving the scene of a fatal shooting of two wealthy men long suspected of having less than lawful connections in their business dealings. I’m sure the Yarders will have no trouble believing that Sherlock Holmes has gone on a rampage avenging his dear friend and will scramble all their resources trying to find the rest of the members of the gang before he does. In this way I shall accomplish two things at once: a well-deserved revenge on those who thought to profit from my misfortune, and a police force entirely looking in the wrong places as we travel out of the country.” He grins, perfectly satisfied with himself, then ostentatiously reaches for his pocket-watch. “Oh dear! I am afraid I have been so enjoying our conversation, I have entirely lost track of time. The doctor will undoubtedly want to check up on his patient – you, of course – and I really must see if I can learn what has delayed my men.”

He reaches out, patting me on the head as one would a dog or a small child, and then leaves the room.

Leaving me to my thoughts, my racing mind, and all the verbal poison he just finished pouring into my ears.

I can hear his words echoing over and over in my mind. My memory supplies image after image of King, the flush of arousal that crept over his face and neck, the sick excitement in his eyes. My imagination is all too able to bring his words to life. Pure chance spared my friend this afternoon. If King manages to get Watson into his clutches…

No!

No, I must not think about this. I must find something else to occupy my brain, or I will go mad within the hour. I will think of something else. I can force my mind into concentrating on another problem. Any problem. I have evidence before me, a proposed theory, however unwilling I was to listen to it. But does it hold true?

I can easily believe that the police, finding the brutalized body (Watson’s brutalized body, but I must not think about that) of a man many of them know well, would be collectively set on their heads. They might be easily misled. But the staged murder, the attempt to frame me for it – it is heavy-handed, to say the least. Junian King was successful for so long not least because he was subtle and meticulous in his planning and restrained (for the most part) in his actions. This is not; not my kidnapping, not the foulness he spoke of at such length, not the death of Sir Mortimer. The drug, this _woorara_ (and the name is faintly familiar; there is something in my brain-attic relating to it, I must try and remember it) – that is a subtle, vicious, and effective (too damnably effective) measure that required planning and forethought, much more like the King of old. But the rest of it does not measure up to that. It is clumsy, more the raving obsessions and delusions of a madman than the subtle plotting of the experienced criminal that he is.

Either King has spun a farrago of lies about his actions and plans to torment me – entirely possible – or there is something more driving events than just the Baroness’ plotting and King’s revenge.

What could it be?

I do my best to concentrate my mind on this question, but my brain-engine must have something to work on, and there is too little grist in that pile, and far too much in others.

Despite everything, I can still hear King’s voice, driving me ever closer to insanity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter originally posted June 4, 2019.


	9. Chapter 8: Vizier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Inspector Lestrade attempts to keep pieces together and advance on the board.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** For this chapter, descriptions of crime scenes and criminal activities; hand-wavey descriptions of Victorian crime scene handling and police procedure; the author’s imaginings about the Diogenes Club.

# Chapter Eight: Vizier

_…I can hope…_

In which Inspector Lestrade attempts to keep pieces together and advance on the board.

 

 _Inspector Lestrade_ :

Getting clear of Sir Mortimer’s house was more of a problem than I’d anticipated. The first bobby to arrive at the scene was scarcely more than a boy, and about as green as it was possible to be. Just the sight of Sir Mortimer’s corpse was enough to send him sick. He did his best to pull himself together, but it was clear he was too shaky to be left in charge of the scene, particularly not one as sensitive and tricky as this. I resigned myself to waiting until reinforcements arrived. Doctor Watson kindly took the constable in hand, talking to him quietly in one corner of the study, doing his best to calm him down while keeping himself between the man and any sight of the corpse. I slipped outside the study door, careful not to open it enough to allow anyone to see inside. I did my best to stare down the muttering, milling servants clustered in the hallway. There were fewer of them than I expected, few enough that it was easy to spot a particular man missing.

“Have you seen the fellow who let us in?” I asked Wiggins softly, to avoid being overheard. He was still standing outside the study door, silently intimidating anyone who ventured too closely.

“Nah, and I’ve been keeping an eye out for ’im.” The slight thickening of his accent was a more certain clue that this disturbed him than the stone-calm poker face he kept on display for those watching. He kept his deep voice as quiet as my own. “Nor’ve I seen any maid that looks as if she’s got bad toothache.”

“You thought there was something wrong with that story too, eh?”

Wiggins snorted. “Inspector, even Doctor Watson didn’t swallow that one, and he’s not an overly suspicious sort in the main way of things.”

That was true enough. I turned my attention to the servants and stepped forward to address them. “Your attention, good people. I’m Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Where’s the man who answered the door when we rang the bell?” I asked them. “He’s a middle-aged man, thinning blond hair, blue eyes, stocky build?”

A moment of silence, and then an older woman stepped forwards. “That’d be Mr Garber, one of the manservants, sir. I last saw him in the kitchen when he came bursting in, shouting that the study door was locked and that there might be something amiss with the master.”

“Thank you. And you are, madam?”

“I’m Mrs Skyler, the housekeeper. I’ve been a member of the household for near on twenty years, so I’m probably the best one to give answers if you have questions.”

It’s always a funny thing when a witness volunteers themselves forward in an investigation. Sometimes it’s out of a genuine desire to help. Other times, it’s nothing more than attention-seeking. And sometimes it’s to keep others from speaking up. Mrs Skyler looked honest enough, but that was no guarantee. Still, it wouldn’t do to dismiss her out of hand or get on her wrong side. “Thank you very much, Mrs Skyler, that’s kind of you, although I’m afraid we’ll have to speak to everyone eventually. Did Mr Garber remain in the kitchen?”

She shook her head. “No, sir. He said he’d be going back to the front door, to keep watch and let in anyone needful. It was a sensible thing to think of for such a newcomer. I expect he’s there now.”

“Yes, that was well-thought of on his part.” I only glanced at Wiggins, but he picked up my meaning at once. He left his place by the entrance to the study and started making his way towards the front door. I kept speaking, at least in part to help distract the others from his departure. “You say Mr Garber is a new man to the household?” I added mildly, but inwardly I was on high alert.

“Yes sir; Sir Mortimer hired him this past quarter day, along with two others.”

About six weeks ago, I calculated. That might be important. “Three new people? That’s quite a change. You must have had your hands full, training them up so well so quickly.”

Mrs Skyler fidgeted, a touch of colour coming to her cheeks at the compliment. “Oh well, sir, yes, it was a change, but it was a pleasure too to have things seen to properly on a daily basis as they should be. We’d been sadly understaffed for some time.”

“I see. Recent departures among the staff that needed replacing?”

“Oh no – I mean to say, nothing terribly recent, sir.”

That did not match what Doctor Watson said about Sir Mortimer’s case – that servants had been recently scared away. “Has there been any trouble in the household, Mrs Skyler? Anything unusual that you know of?”

She shook her head firmly. “No sir. We’ve had no trouble at all of any sort.”

“And Sir Mortimer? Has he seemed different lately, or worried about anything?”

“No, if anything he’s been in a better humour than usual since one of his investments paid off handsomely. There’s nothing like money to put a man in a cheerful mood.”

“No indeed.”

A slight commotion heralded the return of Cartwright, who handily made his way through the servants and to my side. He was slightly out of breath, but his grin was full of energy. “Wire’s sent, Inspector, and there were two policemen on the corner next to the telegraph office. I told them that you needed help here. They wanted to report in, but said they’d be right behind me.”

“Thank you, Mr Cartwright; that’s excellent news.” I gestured for him to go into Sir Mortimer’s study. As he passed me, I turned my head and quickly asked, “Who was minding the door when you came back?”

“Same person who was minding it when I left – nobody at all. I let myself out and back in again.”

It didn’t surprise me, but I wanted to growl all the same. We’d search the house once more policemen arrived, but I felt certain we’d find no sign of Mr Garber beyond those left behind by a hasty departure. I’d have to find a way to ask the helpful Mrs Skyler the names of the other servants who hired on at the same time he did – and find out if those people were still present.

Police reinforcements arrived fairly quickly after Cartwright. Better still, I recognized one of the men; a sergeant I had worked with previously, a tough, competent fellow with a knack for managing others. He withstood the sight of Sir Mortimer’s corpse with equanimity. I left him in charge of the scene until an inspector arrived from Scotland Yard, with instructions to keep anyone else from leaving the house, and to put a guard on all the doors.

There wasn’t nearly the choice of vehicles available for hire in this corner of London. The one we wound up with was a two-wheeler, large for its kind, but still far smaller than the four-wheeler we’d rode in on the way to Sir Mortimer’s. Both Cartwright and Wiggins seemed determined to stick to Doctor Watson regardless of anything anyone might say. Under the circumstances, I could only count this a good thing, but it did make things difficult when they carried it as far as not wanting to hire a separate cab and follow in it. After a bit of hurried negotiation between them and the driver, Wiggins climbed up to sit next to the driver, leaving the rest of us to cram into the passenger compartment. Cartwright pulled out a notebook as soon as the cab lurched into motion and scribbled away furiously despite the cramped quarters and constant jostling.

“What are you writing?” Doctor Watson asked after a few silent minutes.

“A brief account of the scene in Sir Mortimer’s study. With any luck I’ll be able to run it as an exclusive. My editor might cry with joy if we manage to scoop the _Illustrated Police Gazette_ and the _London Journal_.”

“Your editor?” I asked sharply.

“Cartwright is a journalist,” Watson explained.

Cartwright named the paper he wrote for, a small but moderately respectable one, with joyful pride.

A newspaperman! And I’d been allowing him to follow along on a sensitive matter, and then an active crime scene. What a blunder! I’d been so in the habit of thinking of him as one of Mr Holmes’ Irregulars, I never even thought about the fact that he was clearly too old for such things.

Well, the mistake was made; no help for it. But thinking of Mr Holmes, I remembered how he’d occasionally made use of the press to his advantage in a case. “I’ll want a look at it before you publish anything,” I warned him. “We can’t have something getting out that might endanger Mr Holmes, or help the criminals who did for Sir Mortimer.”

Cartwright’s expression shifted from indignant to understanding. “I’d never publish anything that might bring harm to ’im – him, Mr Holmes I mean. I can’t not publish – not that it’d do any good if I didn’t, a story like this will out soon enough – but if you need me to publish a passel of lies to help him, I’ll do it in a heartbeat.”

“I don’t doubt that,” I said, and believed it. “I just meant a word of caution. Write what you’d like to print, and don’t be surprised if Mr Mycroft Holmes wants to look at it too.”

Cartwright’s eyes went round and wide. “Mr – Mr who?”

“Holmes has an older brother, Mr Holmes,” Doctor Watson told him kindly, with a sharp look at me. “That’s who we’re on our way to see now. He’s a very private man, however.”

“I won’t say a word,” Cartwright promised immediately, “nor write one either. In fact I’ll likely forget about him half an hour after we’ve met.”

“No you won’t, not if he agrees to meet you,” Doctor Watson sighed. “He is quite unforgettable, not to mention unique. Just exercise as much journalistic tact as you can muster.”

I had worked for Mycroft Holmes long enough to know that even with my earlier wire, he would have left his office by now and be firmly entrenched at the Diogenes Club. By the time we arrived, Cartwright had completed a hasty draft of the article he wanted to publish. He handed me his notebook without a word before we left the cab. Wiggins joined us on the pavement, looking windblown but otherwise unaffected by his ride on the driver’s seat. He made no comment, not when I knocked on the club door, nor when the doorman let us into the vestibule. The man nodded when I asked for Mr Holmes, then looked askance at Wiggins and Cartwright. “I was told to expect you, sir, and escort you to the Stranger’s Room when you arrived. Doctor Watson, you are known, but I was not told to expect so many others,” he said in hushed tones scarcely above a whisper. “I shall inquire of Mr Holmes how he might wish to proceed. In the meantime, sirs, remain here as quietly as you can, and do remember that there is absolutely no talking allowed if you are admitted inside the club.”

Cartwright goggled at that last bit but held his peace. Wiggins merely raised his eyebrows and grinned to himself. Doctor Watson shook his head. For the most part he looked perfectly comfortable, even at ease, but I noticed that his left hand gripped the handle of his doctor’s bag tightly enough that the tendons stood out on the back of his hand.

“There is a moderately decent pub not two blocks away from here,” he murmured. “The Yellow Hen. If you want to take this opportunity to get a bit of refreshment, I give you my word that when we leave the club, we’ll go straight there and give you the opportunity to rejoin us, if you wish it. I know you want to help Holmes, but you must be hungry by now.”

“I could do with a bite,” Wiggins rumbled thoughtfully, “particularly as I don’t see this evenin’ ending anytime soon. What say you, Cartwright? Could you see your way to waiting with a pint and a plate o’ sandwiches?”

The reporter looked torn between professional curiosity and youthful appetite. Focused on him, I only caught a hint of movement from the corner of my eye, enough to know that Wiggins had made some sort of quick gesture, but not enough to know what it might have been. Whether in response, or just in coincidence, Cartwright made up his mind. “Best eat while there’s food to be had,” he told Doctor Watson. “But you promise, right?”

“My word of honour; we will find you at the Yellow Hen.” The doctor did not hesitate to give the reassurance. It was enough for the two young men; they nodded and took themselves off at once.

I might have imagined the doorman’s disappointment when he found them gone. He had the look of a man who had expected to refuse someone entry, at least to my eye, but there were none left to refuse. Instead he merely nodded and gestured for us to follow him up the stairs and into the club proper.

The Stranger’s Room was misnamed, as I had cause to know, if only because there was more than one of them on the premises. There was a moderately sized room, used by various members of the club when they had visitors who required conversation; there was a smaller, well-insulated room with two chairs, a small table, and a telephone; and lastly there was a pleasant room lined with bookshelves and comfortably furnished with a desk, a reading-chair, and other amenities. All of these were referred to as “the Stranger’s Room” at various points in my experience, but the first was the most commonly used by other members of the club, and the latter I’d only ever seen used by Mycroft Holmes. I had reported to him here many times, and so I was unsurprised when the doorman led us to that particular door, tapped twice, and then opened it. He waved us inside and then silently closed the door behind us, leaving us alone in the room with Mycroft Holmes.

“Inspector. Doctor Watson,” he greeted us from where he sat behind the desk as soon as the door closed. He looked just the way he always did; calm, unhurried, and mildly attentive, as if this was a regular meeting between us, and not a report on his potentially missing sibling. His light grey eyes took us both in with a glance. “Your demeanour suggests you bring news, but not of my brother.”

“Not directly, but I believe we have discovered – well, let us present you with the evidence. Doctor Watson, could you please relate what happened today, and what you told me about the condition of Sir Mortimer’s body and your conclusions?”

It was a somewhat bizarre request, as I could have summarized it well enough, but I had my reasons. To his credit, Doctor Watson did not question it with even so much as a glance. The account he gave of Sir Mortimer’s arrival at 221B, his alleged case, and the happy accident that had prevented him from joining Mr Holmes in Sir Mortimer’s carriage was quickly told. I learned about what had alerted him first to possible trouble, and the completely fortunate occasion of Cartwright’s and Wiggins’ company and conclusions, as he related them. His account of the incident at Sir Mortimer’s door, with the supposed maid with a toothache, was minimal, but not left out. He was rather more succinct in his account of his findings about Sir Mortimer’s body than he had been with me at the scene, but that was likely as much a result of having thought it out and voiced his conclusions once before as anything else. Throughout the recitation, Mycroft Holmes kept his eyes on Doctor Watson, one hand supporting his massive head, his face placid even through the most terrible of the doctor’s revelations.

Mycroft Holmes was silent for a few moments after Doctor Watson concluded, his expression thoughtful but otherwise unchanging. “It is fortunate you recalled the existence of such a drug, Doctor Watson,” he said at last. “I doubt you are an expert on it, however.”

“I am not, no. But I am certain there is at least one doctor in London who has made a study of it.”

“Let us hope that there is more than the one expert in London besides the one who must have been involved somehow with Sir Mortimer’s murder.” It was said dryly enough that I could hear Sherlock Holmes saying it. The resemblance between the brothers was rarely so clear. “If necessary, you should return to Baker Street long enough to retrieve whatever notes you might have on these substances. I believe it will be wise to have an expert on hand. If you do return there, we will have to deal with the problem of any watchers, but with a little thought, we might be able to turn them to our advantage.” He turned his focus on me. “Now please tell me what you observed.”

I told him everything from my arrival just as Doctor Watson was about to embark to our arrival at the Diogenes. I resisted the temptation to omit anything in the interest of time. I had learned over the years that when reporting to Mycroft Holmes, it was best to tell him everything, no matter how seemingly trivial it was, but to reserve any deductions or guesswork until he asked for them. At the appropriate time, I handed over Cartwright’s notes for his newspaper article.

He paged through them swiftly, rapidly skimming the hastily-written lines. “Mr Cartwright is colourful, but there is nothing here that others will not likely report, except for your names as being involved. I am glad to see that you did not share any of your thoughts on any drugs used with Mr Cartwright – or that he had the discretion not to mention it. That lack, combined with the sensational nature of the overall copy, could play to our advantage.” He looked up. “The attempts to secure your person, Doctor Watson – for so we might characterize the incident with the allegedly ill maid as well as the false telegram – are suggestive. They could indicate that my brother remains at large, and your abduction is meant to draw him in or coerce him in some way. But you saw something that makes you believe otherwise, Inspector.”

It was the invitation to speculate I had been waiting for. I wished I did not have to say what I did, but at the same time it was a bit of a relief to say it to someone who could understand and evaluate the import of what I had seen. “It’s the cuts, and what Doctor Watson said about Sir Mortimer’s death being as sadistic a way as he could think of to kill someone. It reminded me of another case, many years ago now. Four mutilated corpses that turned up near Shadwell Basin. All the bodies had scars, deep and plentiful scars. They were detailed, and generally symmetrical.” I fought the urge to look over at Doctor Watson and kept my eyes fixed on Mycroft Holmes. “I consulted Mr Holmes on the case, but it came to nothing. The Yard was never able to make an arrest, but a few years later, Mr Holmes told me privately that he believed he knew who had inflicted those old wounds, if not necessarily the killing blows that had done for them at the last. He said he’d seen some other marks on other poor wretches that were similar. A dangerous and depraved sadist left those scars. He called them characteristic of the man.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Doctor Watson tilt his head, and sensed his full attention. Mycroft Holmes did not move or change expression, except for a very slight narrowing of his eyes. “And who was this man my brother named?” he asked softly.

“It was Junian King.”

Doctor Watson bit off an oath, stopping halfway through his words with a visible effort. His eyes went hard. In contrast, Mycroft Holmes did not react outwardly at all; he said nothing, his expression did not change, he did not move. He simply looked at me, or more properly through me, those grey eyes distant, seeing possibilities and likelihoods and scenarios far beyond anything I’d ever imagine.

“That would be most unfortunate, if it proves true,” he said at last. “We have kept an eye out for him for years, Sherlock and I, and I have not heard any indications that he had returned to England.”

“You knew where he was?” Doctor Watson interrupted.

“No, I did not,” he replied at once. “Rather say I knew where he was _not_ , which was not anywhere in London, and most likely not anywhere in England. There was a widespread and thorough search for him in the months after your abduction, Doctor, both on the part of the police and on the part of the government, not to mention Sherlock’s own efforts. It is remotely possible King could have remained in this country hidden in some backwater, disguised and careful to completely change his habits, and gone undetected – but very, very unlikely.” He shook his massive head. “A man like Junian King is like a leopard; he does not change his spots, and in his case, his habits and person are too distinctive to remain concealed from those actively hunting him even in a city with as many hiding places as London. But hunters can grow lax, and searches and sentries lose urgency over time. It is possible he could have returned to London recently, kept a low profile, and gone unnoticed for a short time. Now that we have evidence that he might have returned, we will find him, if he is really here.”

“The trick will be finding him quickly,” I muttered. I had no doubt that we could find him eventually, if he was here – Mycroft Holmes notwithstanding, the Yard would spare no effort, and we’re very good at what we do – but every minute Junian King was a free man was a minute too many. Particularly if he had somehow managed to get his hands on Sherlock Holmes.

“That shouldn’t be difficult.”

“How so, Doctor?” Mycroft asked before I could.

“Even if he has Holmes, he won’t be satisfied. He will want me as well.” Doctor Watson almost smiled at my startled expression. “It’s plain enough from those attempts to lure me in today, and if it is King, the intent behind his last message to myself and Holmes was fairly clear.” He shrugged, a diffident, somehow modest gesture that did nothing to hide his steely resolve. “And even if it isn’t him, we know we can draw out whoever’s behind Sir Mortimer’s murder, because they’ve tipped their hand. We have the perfect lure – me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter originally posted June 11, 2019.


	10. Chapter 9: General

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Doctor Watson evaluates the stakes and proposes a wager.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** For this chapter, arguments, planning, speculation, multiple references to canon, references to medical articles of the time, the author’s continued imaginings about the Diogenes Club.

# Chapter Nine: General

… _Its fount_ …

In which Doctor Watson evaluates the stakes and proposes a wager.

 

_Doctor Watson:_

No sooner had I spoken than I wanted to start back to Baker Street and set events in motion. I wanted – needed – to be doing something. Holmes’ absence and the question of what might have happened to him was a goad urging me onwards. Even in ordinary times, I am a man of action, and as such, I long to act. And this was no ordinary case. Just hearing Junian King’s name made my skin crawl and my fingers itch for my trusty revolver.

What I wound up with, at least at first, was an argument – not between myself, Lestrade, and Mycroft, but between the two of them.

I expected Inspector Lestrade to resist my plan, or rather my statement of purpose, for I could freely admit “let myself be caught” was no reasonable plan without strategies in place to ensure I was followed, or at least traced. He was indeed vehemently opposed to this. He objected to the idea of using me as a lure in the strongest possible terms. He is a very good man, and a good friend too, and he will always see me as a civilian. He is a policeman to the bone, so he will try to protect those he sees as civilians from danger.

Mycroft Holmes did not object to my words, which was also as I expected. Rather, I counted on him to see the merit of the idea, build upon it, and bring Lestrade around too. He fulfilled my every expectation. He is far too strategic a thinker to let any personal considerations interfere. I like him a great deal, and he is friendly enough to me, but in the grand scheme of things, his brother’s welfare and King’s downfall both weigh far more heavily in his judgment than anything else could. That is exactly how it should be, for it is the truth. Holmes is far more important than I am by any measure. Lestrade did not see it that way, and the two argued with a will, leaving me restless and unable to avoid my thoughts.

If it really was King, and he had somehow managed to get the better of my friend and abduct him… I tried not to dwell on the idea, but I felt a creeping horror nonetheless, pushing in while Mycroft and Lestrade debated back and forth. I remembered all too well what it had been like, being King’s involuntary guest and the unwilling object of his attention. And I had only been a diversion, a way of getting at Holmes, and not the true target of his attentions – at least not at first. I could not deceive myself; I knew that I had become an object of interest to his twisted mind during the thankfully few hours I had been held prisoner in his house. That brief exposure had been disturbing in ways that years as a doctor, my experiences as a soldier, and the cases I had seen with Holmes had not inured me against. What he might do to Holmes, the original target of his plans, was not to be thought on.

I was taking a risk, a very personal risk, by volunteering myself as bait. Holmes had not spoken to me in depth about King, his past career, what he was capable of. But I am not naïve. I know evil when it looks me in the face, when mismatched eyes shine with excitement and fair skin flushes with pleasure at the sight of pain. I understood what it meant that he sent me half of my own shirt collar, with the other half remaining in his keeping. Probably not to the depths Holmes did, but well enough to guess at what might well happen to me should I ever find myself again in his power. That understanding would not deter me, though I certainly had no desire ever to wind up in those circumstances, not even for a matter of minutes. I would do everything I could to stack the odds in our favour. I knew I could depend on Lestrade, and Mycroft would do whatever he could; and I had been unexpectedly blessed with the assistance of Cartwright and Wiggins. But I could marshal other resources, too. I could do something even from the Diogenes.

Mycroft made no objections to the idea of my using the club telephone room to ring up Doctor Percy Trevelyan. I knew he had a ’phone in his home, which also served as his office. Luck was with me; Doctor Trevelyan was not only at home when I called, but his study of various nervous disorders and nervous lesions meant that he not only recalled that article in the Lancet I had been trying to remember but had it to hand as a reference in his medical library: _On the Influence of Physical and Chemical Agents upon Blood; With Special Reference to the Mutual Action of the Blood and the Respiratory Gases_. He was able to refresh my memory as to its particulars, and confirmed my belief that any victim of the drug described in that article must be kept as calm as possible to try and prevent their very natural distress from leading to a whole host of possible longer-term disorders. He gave me the names of two specialists in London he knew who had worked with the author of the article, in case the great man himself was not reachable. I had even heard of one of the two other specialists, Doctor Moore Agar, if only by reputation.

A brief look of satisfaction lightened Mycroft’s features when I gave him those names and a summary of what I had learned. “Thank you; that was very well done. I shall follow up with these gentlemen about this _woorara_ , its administration, symptoms, and treatment, and possibly with Doctor Trevelyan also. It seems likely to me that having incapacitated one person with it, they may well have done so with my brother as well. If so, we will want an antidote to hand, if there is any such, and a knowledgeable practitioner standing by, ready to help him recover from its effects.”

It was such a logical inference, I should have thought of the possibility immediately. But I had not even considered it until Mycroft spoke. My friend is a difficult man to keep contained, as a select few criminals could attest. He is as skilled as any professional magician when it comes to wriggling out of bonds, whether ropes or manacles or straight-jackets. There are very few locks that can withstand him, and he always has handy bits of wire concealed about his person. Drugs can subdue him, but his recreational indulgences have left him resistant to most substances, and it would take a keen doctorly eye indeed to be able to discern Holmes shamming the effects from the real thing. All of these have helped him in the past, but against a chemical agent such as this, none of his abilities could be brought into play. He would be as helpless as I would be, or as Sir Mortimer had been.

If Holmes had been subjected to that drug… I shuddered to think what it would do to a mind such as his. At the best of times, he often complained to me of how his mind needed interest, material, stimulation. To be trapped inside his own body, unable to move or speak? Even without other torments, I could easily imagine it driving him mad, particularly if he was in ignorance as to the cause and its temporary nature.

It was another sobering thought in an evening full of them. I could not risk falling into these villains’ hands after all, for there was every reason to believe I would wind up dosed as well, and then I would be truly useless. Worse, I would be powerless to prevent being used as leverage against Holmes, as King had attempted to do before.

“You see the issue,” Mycroft observed, watching my face and deriving my thoughts as his brother so often did. “As valiant as your offer is, we cannot simply ‘allow’ you to be caught and follow you back to wherever the mastermind of these outrages might be hiding. It is too chancy. Rather, we must hunt down the hunters and convince them to divulge what they know without alerting our true quarry.”

I glanced at Lestrade, whose expression showed none of the scepticism I half-expected to see. From my experience with Holmes, convincing hired criminals to give information about their employers was not always so simple, but it was certainly worth a try.

“A counter-ambush at Baker Street, then?”

“It is the most logical place to expect an attempt on you, but it will be difficult to ensure that there are no stray watchers to see and report back,” Mycroft mused. “The busyness of the thoroughfare, and the abundance of places from which to observe, is often more of an advantage to my brother than not, but it could be problematic for us. In some ways an attempt at your club would be easier to foil without such concerns. It is a much quieter neighbourhood. But we have no way to know if they know your club, much less whether they have watchers there, or would stage an attempt there if they did.”

It did not surprise me at all that Mycroft knew my club. I could see the appeal of the idea, and I was halfway tempted to suggest that we make the effort. It would be easy enough to enlist Thurston there; he knew how to be discreet and not ask questions, and I well knew he was a steady hand with a gun at need. There were a few other club members I might also call upon to assist. But we only knew for certain that there were watchers at Baker Street. I could return there, be seen coming out with a bag, and hope that they followed me to my club, but that would take time and luck – and time was one thing Holmes might not have. “Baker Street it is, then,” I said. “Cartwright and Wiggins both spotted watchers there before, when we returned from the Lewises. They can probably help again. And I can send word ahead to Mrs Hudson. If she were seen leaving the house in a hurry, with the house-maid in tow, it might encourage a direct attempt on me inside 221B once I return. They would think the house lightly populated, particularly if they already know Holmes himself is not there.”

“That is one possibility,” Mycroft agreed. “It has certainly been attempted before. Equally likely, however, would be an attempt to lure you out under false pretences, or even true threats, such as a fire. You must be on guard against any such attempts.”

To my mind, that was even more reason to make sure Mrs Hudson was well away from Baker Street, although I knew she herself would not agree with me. She is as staunch and brave a woman as I have ever known, and I have been blessed to know many stalwart ladies. “We should be as prepared as we can for all of these,” I agreed, “but only what we can do quickly.”

“That’s true enough,” Lestrade muttered, and I realized he was as anxious to get on with things as I was. It was only Mycroft who seemed to feel no sense of urgency, or perhaps whose sense of detachment was so complete that he was able to ignore it, even when it came to his own brother. A sudden flash of insight occurred to me, along with a third possibility: Mycroft, unlike my Holmes, was not used to acting before he had all relevant data to hand. He wanted to plan for all the possibilities, have a solution for every contingency, but that simply was not possible in this kind of situation, or in most of the cases Holmes took on.

Mycroft, whether he realised it or not, was _stalling for time_. Time that we could not afford to waste.

“I need to return to Baker Street as quickly as possible – within the hour at the most,” I said flatly. “Any longer, and we risk arousing suspicions. We really should be on our way now.”

Mycroft sighed, a deep, resonant sound. “You are quite right, Doctor. Inspector, I trust you will take any and all actions necessary to apprehend anyone who approaches Doctor Watson with intent. Quietly, without attracting notice, and preferably in private.”

“I’ll manage somehow.” The words were sarcastic, but I saw the worry behind them.

“With a little luck, I believe we should be able to get you, Cartwright, and Wiggins inside our rooms without anyone being the wiser,” I offered. “It might be a bit of a squeeze, though.”

“Not if Wiggins fits,” Lestrade retorted. “Anywhere he can wiggle through, I can probably get by without even having to inhale.”

“You will have to tell me the details later,” Mycroft said, looking at Lestrade. “More to the point, once you do apprehend someone – or several someones – if you find you are having difficulty getting them to tell you what they know, bring them to me. If it is King, it is unlikely you will have much trouble; he cannot have the network now that he did in years past, and his hirelings will neither have the same sense of loyalty, nor the fear of him, that his own men did at the height of his powers here in London. However, we cannot be sure of what you will find, and you know I can be of use in this way. I will await word, and if needed, will meet you in the usual place. Now go on. I shall attend to calling Mrs Hudson, and other such details.”

Usual place? Be of use? Clearly there was some prior history here between Mycroft and Lestrade of which I was ignorant. I wondered if Holmes knew. It was something I would ask him about later – and there would be a later, if determination and will could make it so. We would find our way through this tangle.

We had to. I had to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter originally posted June 18, 2019.


	11. Chapter 10: Pawns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which all the players react to gambits, and an endgame is in sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** For this chapter, canon-typical violence; threats; interrogation; questionable planning. 
> 
> **Additional note** : For some reason, the image I tried to include as part of this chapter isn't appearing on AO3. I've included a plain-text version of it instead for the time being.

# Chapter Ten: Pawns

… _call thee fool, old man_ …

In which all the players react to gambits, and an endgame is in sight.

 

_Inspector Lestrade:_

I remembered all too well what it was like working alongside Mr Holmes (as much as he would let me) during the harrowing hours when Junian King had kidnapped Doctor Watson. That had been bad, very bad. I had rarely felt so helpless in all my career. There had been other times, too, working with him, when I had felt out of my depth and all but useless, but that incident stood out in my memory as an epitome of uncertainty and anxiety.

Standing outside of the Diogenes, getting into the four-wheeler hailed by the club doorman, I realized this was worse. At least then I’d had the belief that Mr Holmes himself had some idea of what was going on, some plan, or would find some clue that would get us on the right track. That, after all, was what Mr Holmes did.

But Mr Holmes was not here, and we were all floundering in his absence. In many respects, I was the best-qualified to take on the case. I certainly had investigated enough matters over the years, had the most experience. But everything I knew was based in ordinary police-work, with ordinary criminals. Whoever had killed Sir Mortimer and apparently kidnapped Mr Holmes – particularly if it was Junian King – was well outside ‘ordinary’ and well into the kind of criminal matter I would normally bring to Mr Holmes for assistance. Similarly, my work for the government and Mycroft Holmes was nothing like this. There were no shortage of agents and bad actors there, but my part in it was much more a matter of fact-finding, basic retrievals, and exchanges, at least in the usual way of things. Mycroft Holmes was the master of the chessboard in that world, but here, in Sherlock Holmes’ usual domain, he too was at a disadvantage.

In fact Doctor Watson was the one who seemed least at sea here, but that might only be because he was acting just as he would if Mr Holmes were with him. Namely, he was determined to act bravely and do whatever needed doing to keep Mr Holmes safe.

That was both reassuring and not entirely comforting, given everything.

Wiggins and Cartwright were waiting at the Yellow Hen as arranged. Better yet, they’d had the foresight to order sandwiches for both Doctor Watson and myself as well as for themselves. The remnants of their meal lingered on the table with the napkin-covered food waiting for us.

“Figured you wouldn’t have time or opportunity for a bite elsewise, and you’ll need it,” Wiggins rumbled when Doctor Watson thanked him. “Won’t take a moment to tuck in, and we’ll all be the better for it. The brown ale here’s not bad, neither.”

I thought Doctor Watson would refuse, but he surprised me. He declined the ale, but calmly bolted down both his sandwiches with single-minded haste that would have done a young lad proud. I’d shared meals with him many times, but never seen him like this. He finished his second just as I was starting mine. He caught me looking askance at him and smiled faintly.

“You learn to eat quickly in the Army, Inspector, and medicine is just the same. You eat what you can whenever you can and don’t stop for manners, conversation, or even breath.” His smile turned wry. “And Holmes is not known for his patience when on a case, particularly since he can rarely be convinced to eat anything himself. Even when he’s experienced the effect of such decisions. I myself am rather more pragmatic, but I too would rather not spend any more time dining than absolutely necessary.”

I folded the majority of my second sandwich into my handkerchief. “I can eat in the cab. Let’s go on to Baker Street.”

“Oxford Street, actually. We will alight there. I will catch a hansom to Baker Street and arrive alone – after you, Wiggins, and Cartwright have made your way inside our building. Unseen.” He turned to the two younger gentlemen, both of whom were grinning. “You do remember the way?”

Cartwright laughed. “Oh yes, Doctor. I haven’t forgotten.”

“I expect I can still manage it,” Wiggins agreed. “It’s a mite tricky, Inspector, but I suppose you’re capable of it if we show you the knack.”

“Too right I am. I’ll be just fine, wherever you lead me.” I did not admit the purely unprofessional curiosity I felt about this supposed route, or my anticipation. It would not do to acknowledge that I was rather looking forward to the experience, not to mention learning how these two thought they would get into Baker Street without being noticed by anyone.

Three-quarters of an hour later, my curiosity was satisfied, my clothes would never be the same, I had a healthy respect for Cartwright, Wiggins, and any other person who had ever attempted this mad feat, and an even greater respect for Mrs Hudson than I had held previously (and that was a great deal). Wiggins and Cartwright sat on the stairs leading up to Mr Holmes’ sitting-room, waiting, while I sat in a particular chair in the foyer of 221, staring at a mirror which just so happened to reflect the view out the window of the street and approach just outside the front door. It also had the merit of keeping me from being visible to the world outside. I’d never noticed this mirror before in all my visits to Mr Holmes, at least not beyond “someplace to check and see if my hat was on straight.” Similarly, I’d never thought about the placement of the chair other than a likely place to pause and remove mucky shoes. I had a sudden insight as to why Mr Holmes might be constantly irritated as to what he felt were the failures of everyone around him to observe. I also wondered what else I had missed about 221. I could be forgiven for failing to notice (or know about, or even deduce the presence of) the route Wiggins and Cartwright had shown me, but this watching-post had been here for years, right in the front hall.

Movement on the previously-quiet street distracted me from my thoughts. A cab came to a halt at the kerb in front of the door, and I saw Doctor Watson alight from it. He was moving much more slowly than usual, leaning heavily on his walking-stick. He awkwardly juggled his doctor’s bag in the hand along with the tip he evidently wanted to offer the driver, eventually placing the former on the pavement in order to deliver the latter. He managed to hand up his coins and exchanged what looked to be a few pleasant words with the fellow before the cab-man flapped his reins and started up his horse. The doctor stood and watched him go for a few moments before stooping down to retrieve his bag. The stiff way he did, and the slowness in the way he straightened up again, made him look decrepit, slow, and inattentive to anything but his own balance.

In other words, like a perfect target.

A target that did not go unnoticed. Two burly men came into my limited line of sight, hurrying down the sidewalk, heading directly towards Doctor Watson. One man reached out towards him to grab Doctor Watson by the shoulder just as a cab came into view on the street.

Or attempted to grab him by the shoulder, at any rate. Doctor Watson shied away somehow even as I leaped up from my chair. I saw him evade the grab attempt and the follow-up from the other fellow before I lost sight of them in my rush to the door. Wiggins and Cartwright bolted out right on my heels.

The cab I’d seen had stopped directly in front of Baker Street, blocking anyone from seeing the attack. Doctor Watson had been busy in just the few seconds he was out of my sight. His bag was still on the ground, along with one of the ruffians. The other was staggering underneath swift, expertly-delivered blows from Doctor Watson’s walking-stick. The man on the ground groaned and tried to get to his knees just as a third man came rushing in.

I was still too far away to help, but Doctor Watson required no assistance. He expertly jerked the second man forward, twisting so that his dazed attacker stumbled into his downed companion – and directly in the way of the third fellow. The three men tangled together in a chaotic heap long enough for me to reach them, with Wiggins and Cartwright close behind.

“Quickly – bring them inside. We will attract attention in a moment, if we haven’t already, and we need not to be seen.” He nodded up at the cab driver, who still sat inexplicably in the road. “Thank you for your assistance. Please wait to leave until we get our friends indoors.”

I recognized the laugh of the well-muffled cabman: Achsa Jacobs. Holmes and Watson often rode in his cab. “’Appy t’ve helped, sir. I must say I worrit I hadn’t got me cab turned about in time after droppin’ yeh ’ere, when I saw them jump at yer.”

“You did everything perfectly. I couldn’t have asked for a better performance.”

The cabman tipped his hat. “I’ll be at me usual stand, then, should you need me further. Don’t wait to send word if you do, and don’t fear I mightn’t be there, as I will. I won’t be takin’ no more fares tonight unless yeh call.”

While Doctor Watson spoke with the driver, Wiggins and Cartwright wrestled their swearing, struggling captives up the steps and into the foyer. Well, initially swearing; Wiggins got an arm around the throat of one of them and choked off his air vigorously enough that it seemingly cowed Cartwright’s captive into quiet compliance. Between us, Doctor Watson and I got the third fellow upright and followed them as quickly as possible, which was not very, as the man was barely conscious.

“Only three,” Doctor Watson mused aloud.

“Only?”

“It was five, the last time King sent men after me. If it had been three then, I might have managed to escape the ambush.” He shook his head. “I believe Mycroft was right, as he usually is. If this is King, he does not have the resources he once did.”

“Let’s see if they’re also easier to persuade than the last lot of King’s men I encountered.” I remembered all too well how recalcitrant King’s hirelings had been, even after their arrests. Once we were inside, I let the man we held slump down but kept a sharp eye on him in case of a sudden revival. Wiggins and Cartwright had already managed to find ways to tie the hands behind their two men. I used my darbies on the third man, locking his wrists behind him and threading the chain through the hallway chair’s legs to boot. I was taking no chances with any of them.

I hadn’t thought we were especially loud, but I should have known that Mrs Hudson would take notice of any change in her domain and respond accordingly, no matter what messages were sent to her advising her to leave or otherwise stay safe. Her voice came clearly from somewhere inside 221, strongly and crisply enough as if she was standing right there with us. “Doctor Watson, is that you?”

“Yes, Mrs Hudson. My apologies. We did not mean to disturb you,” Doctor Watson called back, apparently unperturbed by speaking loudly to a woman not actually in the room.

“An envelope was delivered for you earlier this evening. I placed it on your desk.”

“Thank you.” After a quick glance to make sure that we had his former attackers under control, he vanished up the stairs.

I quickly evaluated the three men. One was still dazed; one was glowering at Cartwright with an all-too-familiar combination of defiance and stupidity; and the last…

Ah, the last. The one who still had Wiggins’ arm around his neck and the memory of his deep voice rumbling who knew what threats in his ear. This man was also doing his best to look defiant, but mixed in with it, breaking through it – that was fear. That was something we could work with, or I certainly could, and would. I would start with him.

A patter of feet on the stairs heralded Doctor Watson’s return before I could begin my questioning. He held a single sheet of paper in his hands. His face held a grimness that hadn’t been there before.

“This was what was in the envelope,” he said shortly, handing me the paper.

DOCTOR

Come to THE **Bell** and _Hammer_ at 1:00 **AM**

if you WANT to _see_ Ho **L** mes ALIVE

The ordinary paper quality, the pasted-on words cut from various sources – all this was entirely familiar. King had sent just such a note to Mr Holmes when he had kidnapped Doctor Watson – except that then, the instructions had been for Holmes to stay inside and wait, not come to any particular location. Nor had there been any explicit threat to Doctor Watson in that earlier note, just the presence of his bloodied doctor’s bag.

Then again, with Mr Holmes, there really was no need to be explicit. He’d read all the nuances and multiple other clues besides in that brief message. Doctor Watson evidently wasn’t expected to do the same.

Perhaps he was more subtle than the kidnappers gave him credit for, however. I looked up from the paper just in time to see him focus on the very man I’d mentally calculated to be the most likely to tell us what we wanted to know. “You,” Watson barked, not loudly, but with an icy note of command in his voice I’d never heard before. “Where exactly were you meant to take me?”

“You’re crazy,” the man blustered. “We weren’t doin’ nothin’.”

The second man spat an impressive variety of curses.

Doctor Watson glanced at him, perfectly calm. “I did not ask you to speak,” he said mildly, still with that ice in his voice. “Cartwright, kindly take him upstairs and explain basic manners to him. I’ll be along shortly to drive home whatever parts of the lesson he hasn’t managed to learn.”

It wasn’t a threat. It was a simple statement of fact. Cartwright’s man turned green. Wiggins’ man went chalky. I did my best not to look as shocked as I felt. It wouldn’t do to give the game away.

I dearly hoped Doctor Watson was playing a game, running a bluff. I wasn’t sure if the world would keep spinning on its axis if he wasn’t.

“Guess that means you’re first,” Wiggins rumbled as Cartwright frog-marched his man upstairs. “A treat for me. Too bad for you.” He grinned, no mirth at all in the expression. His face looked demonic in the gaslight.

The man folded like a child’s house of cards, shrinking into himself and cringing away from Wiggins as much as he was able. It was no work at all to get him to tell us everything we wanted to know, including where he was supposed to bring Doctor Watson: 104 Hough Street, in Hoxton. He did not have a name for his employer, or much of a description, but that was secondary.

“Not the Bell and Hammer,” Watson mused, “but that’s not entirely unexpected. Let’s go see whether the second man sings the same song. Wiggins, do you mind…?”

Wiggins acted before Doctor Watson could finish his request, knocking out his man with one swift blow. “I’d rather accompany you, if it’s all the same,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll just secure this fellow to make sure he don’t go wandering off should he wake anytime soon.”

I had thought the second man would prove more difficult, but he told us what we wanted to know almost as quickly as the first one did. Granted, Cartwright’s pointed question about what exactly was in the stoppered bottles that were part of Mr Holmes’ chemistry set probably helped matters along. He too named the exact same place as his fellow.

That was enough for me. I summoned the constable who was on duty patrolling this part of Baker Street, and he in turn summoned sufficient aid and a vehicle to take our three off to the police-station, there to be held until they could be brought up on charges. I took advantage of that time to marshal resources for the raid on the location given to us by the two men, as well as arrange for a warrant for 104 Hough Street (courtesy of Mr Mycroft Holmes, whose ability to procure warrants never failed, and never failed to surprise me) as well as a little visit to the Bell and Hammer. Doctor Watson raised his eyebrows when he overheard me.

“We’ve got a chap who rather looks like you – well, enough like you that with a bowler and a muffler and a doctor’s bag, he’s close enough,” I told him, not going into details as to how and why this should be. “We’ll have at least two policemen in place when he goes in. Should anyone attempt anything, we’ll have another lead to follow.”

“That’s well thought of, Inspector, but I’m rather hoping we can get underway to the other address in the near future.”

That was about as close as Doctor Watson might ever get to outright asking that we hurry. Usually that was Mr Holmes’ demand, and nowhere near so polite. He wasn’t wrong, either, but the need for a speedy assault would leave us more shorthanded than I’d like for the raid ahead of us. I’d sent word out to men I could trust after finding Sir Mortimer and realizing who we might be dealing with, but there simply hadn’t been enough time to reach many, and those who had received it were likely ones already on duty and not necessarily free to act. Those who could aid us would be waiting together for my word, as ready to move as they could be.

Still, there were advantages to a small reliable group, too. We’d be less likely to be spotted or accidentally give ourselves away, for one thing, and that might mean the difference between life and death for Mr Holmes, if he was being held there. If Mr King really had him, if it was Mr King at all. There were entirely too many ifs, and not enough facts. I had to plan for all these possibilities and more, as well as the reality that Doctor Watson wasn’t going to wait around for any certainties.

As we left Baker Street, I saw Doctor Watson was not carrying his doctor’s bag. A prudent measure for going into a fight, perhaps, but I hoped he would not find himself needing it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter originally posted June 24, 2019.


	12. Chapter 11: King

# Chapter Eleven: King

… _a gift of thine_ …

In which Doctor Watson is a man of action and a doctor, and not always wise.

 

_Doctor Watson:_

I did my best to remain outwardly collected on the journey to the address provided by the two men. Despite my best efforts, I had not been able to convince Cartwright or Wiggins to remain behind, and so they rode with Lestrade and myself in the cab. Achsa Jacobs had been able to procure a larger vehicle than he normally drove, swapping with a fellow cabman. He insisted on taking us there himself. For all these reasons and more, it was imperative I maintained my composure and help steady my companions.

Inwardly, I did my best to keep my mind on what must be done. Strangeness kept intruding. It had been quite some time since I had gone out on such a potentially perilous venture as this one without Holmes. I had acted on my own in some of his cases, true; and there had certainly been times where I had come to his aid, as he had come to mine. I had often been left in the dark about my friend’s actions and whereabouts. But rarely had I felt such a threat as now, such a strong and certain presentiment of danger. And never had I felt such overpowering, all-consuming anger.

I have a temper. It is one of the first things I ever told Holmes about myself. I have fought all my life to keep it under control with varying degrees of success. I have cause to believe I have succeeded in hiding it well enough that very few of my current friends and acquaintances would describe me as someone whose temper should not be tried. I know all too well what can happen when a man lets his anger rule him. It raged in my heart now, fuelled by my memories of my own captivity and my fears for my friend. Part of me welcomed it and the energy it brought even as I struggled to rule it, rather than let it rule me.

Wiggins had sunk into a grim silence in his corner of the cab. Cartwright was hunched over his notebook, pretending to jot down notes, but his pencil was more often between his teeth than pointed at the page. Only Lestrade showed no visible sign of tension, at least not that I could observe.

Achsa Jacobs halted his borrowed vehicle a block away from the address we’d been given. He had reluctantly agreed to remain on standby with the four-wheeler in case we needed transportation in a hurry. He made it clear that he’d much rather have the chance to ‘giv’ a good punch to sommat’ but when all was said and done, he seemed to be content enough that we would rather have him standing by than trust that duty to anyone else.

A small group of men stood in the shelter of a shuttered shop, clustered around two dicers and passing around a flask. To the casual eye they looked ordinary enough, but I recognized Inspector Bradstreet almost immediately as he passed the flask to another man. A second look, and I was fairly convinced that one of the two gamesters was Constable White, who had fought bravely with me once against heavy odds when our reserve position was overrun by a dangerous group of fleeing criminals. Two of the watchers were Peter and Paul Taylor, brothers in both blood and in the police force who seemed determined to outdo each other in dedication and heroics. I’d treated them both for injuries more than once. The rest looked familiar, but I did not dare look long enough to place names to faces in case my interest drew the wrong sort of attention. None of the men were in uniform; all those I recognized were men that Holmes and Lestrade had worked with and trusted in the past.

Lestrade began strolling down the street, apparently ignoring the group. We followed at his side. “It’s not as large a party as I’d like, but given how much we don’t know, I felt it better to keep numbers down in favour of those whose judgment I know can be trusted.” He spoke quietly, as if engaging in casual conversation with friends while out for the evening. “We can’t afford a hasty or clumsy action that might give us away ahead of time, or any mistakes once we’re inside the house.”

“Are you sure it’s a house?” I asked, keeping my voice just as low and doing my best to act as if we were speaking of nothing in particular.

“Yes. Bradstreet made sure to verify with the constables who usually work this area, and he’d have given me a sign when we arrived if it was something different.”

I glanced back at where we’d left the group. The dicing game appeared to have broken up, with some individuals going off into the darkness in small clumps, and one group heading the same way we were. I had no doubt that every man was making his way to the same address we were, just not all following this route. It was a good strategy, as much as part of me wanted to approach en masse and simply knock down any doors.

“Let’s hope there aren’t secret passages and tunnels in and out of the place,” I murmured, remembering what Holmes had told me of 11 Little Camden Road, where I had been held.

“There’s nothing like the Camden Catacombs in this part of London,” Lestrade replied, catching my thought.

“Not the right area,” Wiggins agreed. “Not that there mightn’t be passages, but nothin’ on that scale.” He looked around the neighbourhood with an experienced eye. “Not where I’d expect to find King from what you’ve said of him, nor many criminals. Not ton nor the slums, just middlin’.”

“Which makes it perfect, if you think about it,” Cartwright joined in, looking all around without appearing to do so. “Nobody’d think anything nefarious was going on in a place like this. My editor would never believe this setting without a police report for proof.”

“Let’s not put your writing plans ahead of the moment,” Lestrade growled. “We’re coming up on the place soon enough. We’ll turn the corner here, and then it’s the third on the left.”

We walked on, taking care not to appear in a hurry, or as if we were paying any particular attention to our surroundings. We kept to the opposite side of the street in our pass. The place looked ordinary enough at first glance, just another house in the row. All the curtains were drawn, with no glimpse available of what was inside. This was true of the houses on either side. A gas lamp illuminated the front door, the same as every door in the row. The night air was hazy, but I could still make out the chimneys in my brief look up. Smoke billowed from the stacks, as it did from most others.

“No real place to hide in the front of the place,” Cartwright muttered as we reached the end of the street and turned the corner. “I didn’t spot any watchers.”

“Curtains were too tightly closed to allow for watchers that way either,” Wiggins agreed. “Bit of a garden in the back?”

“Walled, with a gate to an alley beyond to provide access for service and servants,” Lestrade agreed. “We’ve got others going along that way to see what’s to be seen. We’ll wait here for word on the best potential approaches before moving in.” He pulled out a cigarette-case and offered it to each of us. Smoking was not the most likely reason for four men to stand about outdoors under a street lamp, but it was plausible enough and not nearly as suspicious-looking as attempting to lurk inconspicuously in the shadows.

I still had about half a cigarette left when Inspector Bradstreet made an appearance. He walked along casually and paused when he reached us. “Pardon me, but do you happen to have a spare match?” he asked, holding out a clay pipe. He continued speaking in an undertone. “The garden is dark, and there was only one man watching by the gate. He’s taking a bit of a nap now, with White standing where he was stationed. It looks like our best way in.”

I blinked. This was nothing like ordinary police-work, and entirely like something Holmes might suggest. Lestrade must have noticed my surprise. “None of us are exactly on duty right now,” he said calmly. “Most of us have gone home ill or were called away by urgent business. Myself, I’m well past the end of my shift and have gone home for a very late supper.”

“And if someone later registers a complaint of your breaking and entering into a perfectly respectable household?”

Bradstreet’s expression remained solemn. “I’m sure we had cause. Perhaps we heard someone calling for help, or suspected a small fire. It’s just a lucky thing there was an officer nearby to render assistance, and to call for more help.”

“I suppose you and I were having that late supper at a nearby pub,” Lestrade mused.

“Constable White patrols an area adjacent to this neighbourhood. He’s told me there’s delightful spot that serves the best brown ale in London not two streets over from here,” Bradstreet agreed. “It’d be an after-supper pint, I think.”

Another time, and this casual banter might have amused me, or at least lessened some of the tension I felt. Not this time. With Holmes’ fate uncertain, it was all I could do not to snap at the two for the delay, even though I knew rationally that we were moving as quickly as we dared, and that failing to take precautions could wind up endangering Holmes more.

For all my impatience, it took us very few minutes to reach the garden gate. Other figures melted out of the darkness as we approached, and there were a full ten of us by the time we reached the lone figure standing watch in the darkened garden.

“No sign of any activity, or that anyone’s aware the guard’s gone, and I’m in his place,” Constable White muttered. “Let’s go on while our luck holds.”

And we were off in an adrenaline-fuelled rush. The door was locked but not barred, and proved no real barrier. Most of us were inside and moving into the hall when a man walked through the door closest to me.

I did not hesitate. I struck him down before he could sound the alarm. My training as a doctor, and my long years working with Holmes, have taught me well. I know exactly where to strike, and how much force to apply, to render a man unconscious, and my walking-stick is an excellent weapon.

And I was entirely too ready to hit anyone who stood in my way. The three men from the fight earlier were barely a down payment.

Things became a blur then; swarming the house, finding and silencing anyone we found, frantically rushing from room to room searching for any sign of Holmes or Junian King. We covered the ground floor without finding anything or anyone of note, which was not unexpected, and without anyone giving us away, which was an astonishing piece of luck. Three of our men went down into the cellar, while the rest of us went up the stairs; some up the front staircase, and the rest of us up the servant’s stairs in the back.

We encountered our first real resistance just after reaching the first floor from those servant’s stairs. Three men, clearly surprised to see us, but not so surprised that they didn’t offer up an immediate fight. There was no way to prevent them from shouting. All I could do was ensure that they would not factor into any further fights. Between my fists, my walking-stick, and two well-placed kicks, I managed my part in that task well enough. My gun remained in my coat pocket. Lestrade had his constable’s stick, and Cartwright wielded a leather sap. Where he’d gotten it, I had no idea. Wiggins alone relied purely on the power of flesh and bone – but given Wiggins’ size and strength, he had little need for anything else.

We won our fight handily, but shouts and cries beyond the servant’s passage told us that the advantage of surprise had been well and truly lost. We ran out into the main hallway to see a fight dying down at the other end, at the top of the main stairs, just as two more men rushed out to try and continue it. I recognized one of them – Garber, the erstwhile manservant from Sir Mortimer’s household. Wiggins and Cartwright must have recognized him as well; they flung themselves on these new foes like ruggers on a loose ball. They seemed to need no help from anyone else.

I saw Bradstreet subduing one man at the other end of the hallway. He and his fellows had things under control. I looked to where Garber and his friend had come from, through an open set of double doors, and saw a dining-room. Chairs were shoved back haphazardly from the table, the remnants of a meal remained on the various plates, and at least one glass was still half-full of wine.

I had a sudden, visceral memory of the dinner I had shared with Junian King as his unwilling guest. King liked to dine very, very late. Rage flared along with the knowledge that we must have just missed surprising all the men at their meal. This might have been simpler if we had caught all of them unawares, instead of just a few lingering at the table. But if King was here, he could not have gone far.

I darted over to the double doors standing opposite the dining-room. They were closed. I carefully eased one open, making sure I was not visible through the gap. Lestrade came up to my side, glaring at me, but remaining silent.

Constable White came up at a dead run and dove through the gap in the doors almost before I knew he was there. Lestrade seemed unsurprised, however, and yanked back the door closest to him before following him in. I did the same, right on the Inspector’s heels.

A sharp, fear-filled cry rang out from a portly man cowering behind a desk covered with some sort of equipment. “Don’t hurt me! I’m a doctor!”

 I hardly glanced at him. My entire attention was fixed on the tableau at the far end.

The room might have been a sitting-room once, but seemed more of a stage set now than anything else. Instead of sofas and chairs in casual seating groups around the fireplace, a slightly raised platform at one end dominated the space. On it was a kind of high-backed chair, and in it, dressing-gown clad, a blanket over his lap, and silent, sat Holmes. He did not move or react in any way to our presence. Indeed, so still was he that for a moment I really thought I was looking at a wax figure instead of my friend. It would not be the first time I had been fooled by his image in wax.

Then I saw his eyelids flicker in an involuntary blink.

“Hold that man there, and don’t let anyone else in here if it can be helped,” I snarled. It was not my place to issue orders or demands, but I knew that Holmes would hate for anyone to see him this way. The fewer who witnessed any part of this, the better. I rushed to Holmes’ side.

“Holmes?”

No hint of awareness. Not a flicker of acknowledgement of my presence in front of him. Standing so close to him, I could see his chest rise and fall slightly with his breathing, but it was like looking at an automaton, a trick designed to emulate life, rather than a living man. I set down my walking-stick and reached inside my coat. I had left my doctor’s bag at Baker Street, but I had packed what essentials I could in the various inner pockets sewn into this particular coat, along with my gun in the outer pocket. It was not the first time I’d needed such an arrangement. I drew out my stethoscope and placed the earpieces in my ears. “I’m right here, Holmes. I know you can hear me, and I know that the drugs in your system have left you unable to speak or move. It is quite temporary, I assure you.” I spoke the words as lightly as I could as I adjusted the instrument and brought the bell of the stethoscope towards his chest. “I’m going to listen to your heart, Holmes, just to make sure you’re as well as you can be.”

I reached over with my other hand to unbutton his shirt-front, only to discover that it was already loose, with several buttons unbuttoned – just where I would have unbuttoned it to slide in the bell. On the one hand, that evidence suggested I was doing exactly what someone else, likely more familiar with the drug than I was, had done. On the other hand, seeing this further evidence of what they’d done to Holmes, the carelessness and casual contempt of it, made me shake with renewed anger. I returned the unneeded hand to my coat pocket, to conceal the fury that curled my fingers into a fist. I did my best to ignore my feelings as I laid the bell over his heart.

The beat was steady, if somewhat faster than was usual for Holmes. I could easily guess the cause for that. My friend had to be under incredible stress. He might not know why he was in the state he was in, and lack of knowledge would be a terrible torture in and of itself to him. I had to do something about that, at the very least. I had to make him calmer and keep him that way, if I could. “You’ll be all right, Holmes. We have evidence from a previous crime scene. Mycroft is already reaching out to doctors in London who are experts on _woorara_. That’s the drug that was used on you. I know a little about it, and from what I remember, it should wear off on its own in - ”

Holmes’ heartbeat, which had begun to slow as I spoke, suddenly began pounding furiously. His face did not change, his eyes did not move from the fixed place they had been, but somehow I knew, as surely as if he had shouted in my ear, that we were in mortal danger.

My hand was already in the pocket where I carried my pistol. I drew it even as I turned to face the unknown threat, placing myself as best as I could between Holmes and the direction his gaze was fixed in.

Junian King stood half-hidden by a curtain on the far side of the room, smiling that terrible smile I had never been able to forget, one arm already rising, gun in hand.

I fired as soon as I saw him, before I even finished my turn. He fired as well, almost at the same moment. I fired again even as I felt a hot crease of pain in my side. The impact sent me staggering back against Holmes’ chair, but I managed to remain upright.

King did not. I saw the gun drop from his hand as he reeled back, disappearing behind the curtain.

I heard Lestrade shout. I saw him run towards where King had disappeared, and I glimpsed several more of our men rush through the door, looking for the source of the shots. I had more important things to worry about. Necessity demanded that I take a few deep breaths, steadying myself, before I could do anything else. I dropped my revolver back into my coat pocket and turned to Holmes. There was no change in his expression, but he had moved, now listing against one side of the wingback sides of the chair rather than sitting completely upright.

Had King’s bullet struck him?

There was no immediate sign of blood, and a quick check revealed that his change of position was more likely caused by my collision with his chair than the impact of any bullet into his flesh. Belatedly I remembered my stethoscope. It had come free from my ears when I turned, but the bell had remained partially tangled in Holmes’ shirt. The instrument dangled down Holmes’ chest, the earpieces now resting on the blanket that covered Holmes’ lap. I started to reach for it, then stopped as pain lanced up and down my side. I did everything in my power to mask it. I knew I was injured, but Holmes could not be allowed to know. He was my priority, my patient, one that had to be kept calm at all costs. Nothing would stop me from seeing to his well-being.

“Doctor Watson.” Lestrade came hurrying over from where King had been.

“King?” I asked before Lestrade could say anything else.

“Dead.” The single word of Lestrade’s pronouncement was filled with grim satisfaction, at least to my ears.

I should have felt relief. I likely did, at some level, but it was a remote thing, subsumed by everything else. “We need to get Holmes back to Baker Street. I’m sure Mycroft will have arranged for an expert to be on hand by now.”

Lestrade looked past me towards Holmes, and then immediately back to me, as if embarrassed. “Of course. I’ll send one of the men for Jacobs and his four-wheeler. And I’ll set others to working on a litter of some kind for Mr Holmes. Unless the doctor there happens to have one among all his other paraphernalia.”

“Doctor?” I echoed stupidly.

“The portly fellow over there.” He gestured to a man sitting miserably on the floor, hands cuffed in front of him, with Constable White looming nearby, glowering. “He claims he’s a doctor, anyway.”

“Then it’s entirely possible he’s the one who dosed Holmes. Make sure you bring him along to find out what he knows. Or send him to Mycroft,” I added, remembering what Holmes’ brother had said.

“Oh, we’ll find out what he knows, never fear.” Lestrade did not trouble to hide the angry edge in his words. “And the others, too. We’ll find out what parts they played in all this, and what else they were up to. There’s some things we found in the basement that want explaining.”

“Where’s Wiggins and Cartwright?” I realized I had not seen my faithful shadows since they tackled those two men in the hall.

“Outside, waiting. Cartwright took a nasty blow to the face, and Wiggins is sitting with him until he can see straight again – well, at least out of the eye he’ll be looking out of for the next few days, anyway. He’ll have a lovely shiner.” The inspector smiled a little. “They’re fine, really, and good men, the pair of them.”

“They are.” I looked at Holmes, wanting him to hear this. “You will be proud of them both, Holmes, when you hear what they’ve done today.”

Holmes did not move.

“Lestrade, please see about the cab and that litter.”

“Of course, Doctor.” He hurried over to the door.

I sighed once he was out of earshot. The adrenaline that had sustained me thus far was wearing off. Lestrade had noticed nothing, but I was within sight of a keener set of eyes. Deliberately so. I had placed myself in direct view, for seeing me had to be less strain for my friend than not being able to see me, whatever else the consequences. “I know, Holmes. I never can manage to fool you, or conceal anything from you, but I had hoped this once to carry it off. It really is minor, you know. And it is so important for you to remain calm. I promise you, it will be all right.”

Nothing changed in my friend’s expression.

“I will have Anstruther come tend me as soon as we return to Baker Street,” I promised him. “You will see for yourself that I will be just fine.”

Holmes’ gaze remained fixed on me.

“And yes, I will tell Lestrade, just as soon as we are in the cab. I am certain he will insist on coming with us, just to make sure we both arrive safely.”­

I leaned a little more heavily against Holmes’ chair and tried to ignore the blood trickling down my side.


	13. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock Holmes receives a visitor, and much is seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** For this chapter, introspection; aftereffects of trauma; aftereffects of injury. 
> 
> It’s the end, folks! A huge thank-you to those of you who have commented, left kudos, and otherwise encouraged me. It means a lot to me, and I appreciate you very much.

# Epilogue

 _… the secret of a spirit…  
_In which Sherlock Holmes receives a visitor, and much is seen.

 

_Sherlock Holmes:_

Baker Street is quiet at last. It had been days since I have been able to spend a moment alone. Mycroft’s expert, a Doctor Moore Agar, has been quite diligent in his ministrations. Persistent, even. I recognized the scientific curiosity in the man, well-leashed but still present behind a genuine concern for my welfare, and did my best to tolerate both, but I have limits even on the best of days.

These have not been the best of days.

Even if he had not been so attentive, I would not have been alone. Watson has been at my side practically every minute. At first it had been a relief; after everything, I had hardly wanted him out of my sight. Truthfully, that much has not changed, but the weight of Watson’s worries (he attempts to conceal them, but he cannot, not from me) has grown difficult for me to bear.

Difficult enough that I lost my temper a few hours ago, and Watson left for his club, to give us both a few hours of privacy. In my case, it also gave me time to reflect.

My thoughts are not the best companions today.

I was not expecting to hear these particular footsteps on the stairs. For a brief moment I wonder if I am dreaming, or hallucinating. Common sense reasserts itself as my brother makes his monumental, and highly unusual, appearance in the sitting-room doorway.

“Mycroft,” I greet him briefly. “You have news?” That is the most likely reason for my brother to have deviated from his habitual rounds.

That is a half-truth. I know it, and as he glances as me, taking in my dressing-gown-clad state, my chair by the fire, the pipe in my hand, and everything else around me, I know he knows it too. He is here to share something he has learned with me, but he is also here to see me, and he is not happy about what he sees. He knows exactly how little I have managed to sleep, how poor my appetite has been. He cannot help but know, any more than I can help knowing how much this distresses him.

I have often been grateful for my brother’s powers of observation. It is something of a relief to know that there is at least one other person in the world who sees as I do, who understands what it is to observe. That does not mean that there are not times when I wish I could hide from that all-knowing gaze, such as now.

“Yes,” he says aloud, answering my initial question as if that is the only thing we have said to each other in the seconds since he entered the room. “I have learned a great deal about Baroness Maupertuis. I thought it best to come directly to you.”

The two sentences sound connected, as if they are part of the same thought. They are in fact only tangentially related.

“Doctor Watson is at his club?” It is phrased as a question, but Mycroft knows perfectly well that Watson is not here, and his club is one of the few places he would be likely to go at this point.

He would not have gone anywhere, had I not driven him to it.

King’s bullet had done little more than leave a long furrow along Watson’s side. He had ignored it, prioritizing my health and condition more than his own.

His side still pains him. The pain I feel about it is a different kind, but just as real.

“Sherlock.”

My name brings my wandering attention back to my brother. He has taken the other chair and sits with his eyes fixed firmly upon me.

He already knows. He always does. That knowledge alone makes it possible for me to speak, for I am not saying anything we do not both already realize. “King missed because Watson moved to put himself in front of me. Killing him, with me helpless to do anything but watch… It would have been his greatest torture, and his greatest triumph.” My throat feels tight, but I force out the words we both know are true. “I would not have survived that.”

“He failed,” Mycroft points out deliberately, needlessly – except there is a need, my need.

“Only because he underestimated Watson.” He always had, both in our first encounter, and in this one. So many people did. “And because Watson is an excellent shot. King did not expect Watson and Lestrade to be able to track him to the house. His plan to shoot Watson and escape through the priest’s-hole during the confusion was a last-minute improvisation. And yet still it very nearly worked.”

Lestrade had told me how that little curtained alcove, a relic of chamber-pot days, had contained a hidden door. The ladder behind it led to a tiny concealed room on the ground floor, one that also had a door. Given the relative shortage of men Lestrade had been able to bring, it was entirely possible King could have managed an escape.

“He did shoot Watson.” Mycroft’s words are a deliberate goad, meant to make me speak further. It gives me permission to do exactly what I wish.

“Yes, but not fatally, as he intended.” Those minutes, knowing my friend was shot, bleeding, and helpless to do anything about it; knowing no one else knew or had even _noticed_ , were the ones more than any others that kept haunting me at night, stealing away slumber. How could Lestrade, who had otherwise surpassed himself in this affair, not have noticed all the signs – the hole in Watson’s coat, the blood on Watson’s waistcoat when his coat gapped to show it? How could he have not marked Watson’s failure to help lift me onto the litter or carry one end of it? How could he not have drawn the inevitable conclusions from such an uncharacteristic set of actions? But he hadn’t, any more than he had seen King until after the first shots rang out, and no one else there – Bradstreet, White, Wiggins, Cartwright – had seen it either. “There are not many men whom, when seeing a gun, will not attempt to dodge away from where it is pointing. King misjudged – or rather judged him as he would other men. His last mistake.”

“Try not to be too angry at him for that.”

Of course I was – am – angry, and naturally Mycroft sees it, even if Watson has not realized the true source of my outbursts. My friend thinks I am still haunted by what King did. I am, as much as I wish I could say otherwise. I can still hear that wretched, gleeful voice telling me all his plans for Watson. I can still see how excited he was at the prospect, how intensely he lingered over every horrible detail. How narrowly Watson escaped that fate, thanks entirely to the early arrival of a baby.

But I am also haunted – if to a lesser degree – by the memory of what _Watson_ did, and by what Lestrade, Cartwright, Wiggins, and Watson himself have told me of his actions while I was King’s captive. There was very little in what they said, and in what I surmised, that was surprising; at least not about Watson and his actions.  That Cartwright and Wiggins had adhered themselves to Watson’s side at the first hint of trouble, and everything they had done in the flimsy pretext of looking for a story (Cartwright) or with no pretext at all (Wiggins)…well. Cartwright now has two highly sensationalized, and one almost entirely fictious, stories to his credit in his paper. A scant recompense for all he did, but more of a reward than Wiggins has had, at least publicly. I have thanked them both, privately, as has Watson. We can – I can – never truly repay them for what they did, but they seem to think the same about us.

Everything they told me is exactly in line with how I myself have seen Watson act, time and again. And yet…

“He was reckless.”

“Not really.” Mycroft contradicts my words with ease, and I cannot help but agree with him, for I know it is the truth, even though I just said otherwise. “No more than he ever is, when others are in danger, except that he will take more risks when it is you.” Mycroft’s expression remained bland, almost indifferent, but I felt the keenness of his gaze. “As you do, when it is him.”

I cannot refute the truth of that statement, either. It lies at the crux of the problem, one I can no longer pretend I do not see.

After a moment’s silence, Mycroft continues. Most unusually, there is something almost hesitant in his voice and manner, something almost unprecedented. “Perhaps this is something you should discuss together before we begin our campaign to bring down the Baroness. She seems in most ways to be much more subtle in action than her husband. There are only the faintest hints of what she might be doing. We might not have detected her misdeeds for years, if at all, had she not acted so aggressively against you. Or rather, had she not picked so problematic a tool for her revenge.” A slight frown creases my brother’s brow as his eyes grow distant. “You and Watson will need to be very cautious, and very much in sync, to be successful in bringing her to justice. Unless, of course, you intend to leave Watson out of it entirely, as you did with the Baron.”

The case against Baron Maupertuis took months. Building a case against the Baroness could take even longer, possibly years. It will be investigation and infiltration, finding weaknesses in her organization and exploiting them. Not areas where Watson’s strengths naturally find use.

I should leave him out of this.

I am not going to.

Leaving Watson behind – leaving unspoken what I have learned in the wake of my helplessness, and what Watson has faced and acknowledged in the awareness of his own – that would be as poisonous as any of Junian King’s other words and actions. I will not give King that victory in death, any more than I would have allowed him to live, had he survived Watson’s well-aimed shots.

It is time, and past time, that I make sure Watson understands his importance to me. That he must never again put my welfare before his, for they are one and the same.

And I will have to give up the pretence that the converse is not also true.

“I will speak to him.”

My brother smiles; a small but warm expression, one I rarely see. “Then I will leave you with what notes I have accumulated thus far and return to discuss them with you another day. I look forward to hearing about your conversation with your friend.”

I heard the street door open when Mycroft did, so I am not surprised by his words, or the sound of Watson’s footsteps on the stair. “Thank you, Mycroft.”

I do not explain all of what I am thanking him for. Mycroft knows. His nod and the gentle approval in his gaze tell me as much.

Watson is visibly taken aback by Mycroft’s presence in our sitting-room. That confusion swiftly changes to concern as Mycroft smoothly evades all of Watson’s conversational gambits and makes (for him) a relatively swift departure. He turns to me as soon as my brother is gone. “Holmes? Is something the matter? You told me yourself once that Mycroft never comes here except on matters of urgency, and he left very quickly. If there’s something you two wish to discuss in private, only say so at once. I can still catch him before he hails a cab and return to my club.”

You could catch him possibly even before he reaches the bottom of our stairs, I cannot help but think, but do not say so. Humour would simply deflect Watson and provide a ready excuse for evasion. “Do not trouble yourself, my dear fellow. Mycroft simply wished to observe how I was faring for himself.”

I meant to reassure, but Watson merely raises an eyebrow. “You would normally go to him, rather than the reverse.”

And there it is, a perfect opportunity. Even so, I hesitate. This is a thousand times more difficult than talking to Mycroft, for Mycroft already knew much of what I told him. Watson is entirely different, at least in the matters of observation and inference.

Watson is no Mycroft. But Watson’s great heart – it is as amazing, and as observant and wise in its own way, as my brother’s abilities are in the intellectual realm. What can I say that he too does not know, at least in some way?

“That is true. I have not been myself these last days, and for that, I must apologize.”

Watson shakes his head and steps forward, instinctively reaching out to grip one of my shoulders. “My dear Holmes, no apologies are needed. You have - ”

I reach up and clasp that hand where it rests on my shoulder, cutting him off. “No. You might not feel it necessary, but I know it is. I owe you many apologies, and even more, I owe you an explanation.” I squeeze his hand and then reluctantly release it. “Please sit, my dear fellow, and let us talk.”

And we do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted July 9, 2019.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted beginning April 16, 2019


End file.
